Later Years
by AndAllThatMishigas
Summary: After recovering from tuberculosis, Sister Bernadette did not return to Poplar. Ten years later, she comes face to face with the Turners once again. Old feelings resurface. Regrets and hopes compete as all three of them struggle to find their way to happiness at last.
1. Chapter 1

**Later Years**

_June 12, 1968_

It was a cloudy day. Not that he minded a bit of overcast weather, but something about the cloud cover and the chilling breeze so close to summer was a bit unnerving. But there was too much to do to worry about that right now. Though if the weather was going to turn any colder than this, he might need to pick up some more supplies…

Timothy Turner had a lot on his mind that afternoon as he hurried through the streets of Oxford. He'd only lived here about three years, but it had very quickly become home. In fact, after he'd finished university, he'd decided not to leave. He had many reasons to stay in Oxford and very few to prompt him to return to Poplar.

The thought of Poplar must have had some strange kismet-like quality, because no sooner had the thought of the old East End come into his mind did a nun turn a corner and walk across the street in his direction. Tim smiled. He had fond memories of those nuns from Poplar. The Nonnatans. The nurses and midwives who cared for him and his father after his mother had died, those kind ladies who had given them a home when they'd felt they had none. Dad worked with them every day and he saw them more often than Tim did, but it seemed the Nonnatus House and the parish hall were the nuns' domain, and those places were the centerpiece of life in Poplar for all. Though the Turner family had never been particularly religious, the nuns had a soft place in Tim's heart.

One nun, more than any other, actually, lived in a very special place in his memory. Those were memories he did not often revisit. They were so happy, so many of them, full of gentle hands and happy smiles and eager intelligence that buoyed his spirits in those early days of having no mother. Sister Bernadette had been so dear to him. She was gentle and soft and kind and lovely. And Tim had loved her, truly. When his mother died and Tim had no one to turn to, Sister Bernadette was the one who filled that gap in their lives. He had Dad, of course. And Mrs. Penny kept the house and made their meals. But Dad was busy. And Mrs. Penny was often very cold and kept things very strict and professional when she worked as their housekeeper. Sister Bernadette played games with him, gave him books to read, encouraged his interests and curiosities, and was always, _always_ there when he needed her.

Until she wasn't.

And that was what made those memories of her ill-remembered. For as happy as he'd been as a child with that dear little nun, she had left them and left them utterly desolate without her. For a time, Tim had been angry. He had been angry that she had reminded the Turners what it was to feel joy and love, only to rip it from them once more. But the anger had not lasted long. What remained after it cooled was a deep sadness that still lived within those memories of her.

Funny how one glimpse at a nun in a habit made him think of all that. The nun was walking with her head down in the wind, coming ever closer to him. Tim could see that she was quite small. Sister Bernadette had been small. Delicate and dainty in stature yet so strong in spirit. Tim had been so young when he'd known her, she'd been only slightly taller than him. But she was positively tiny compared to Dad.

The small nun lifted her head just briefly, and Tim made to smile at her, just to be polite. But he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Sister!?" he exclaimed.

The nun paused. "Yes?"

In that one word, there was just enough of a Scottish brogue that Tim knew he wasn't imagining things. It was her. It was actually her. "Sister Bernadette!" he cried. He moved to embrace her, as he'd done as a child, but he stopped himself, knowing he was a grown man now and such things were entirely unacceptable now.

"I…yes?" she asked, somewhat confused.

Tim felt giddy all of a sudden, adrenaline buzzing through him. "It's me, Sister. Tim Turner. From Poplar."

Her eyes—still so magically blue after all these years—widened and searched his face, looking for the traces of the boy he'd been in the man he'd become. "Timothy, why it is you!" she cried, finally recognizing him. "My, look how you've grown!"

He grinned. "All grown up, I'm afraid."

"Whatever are you doing here?" she asked.

"I live here," he told her. "Well, a few streets away, actually. But what are you doing here?"

She smiled back at him. "I also live here. The Sisters of St. Raymond Nonnatus have recently sent a handful of us here, to work at Radcliffe Infirmary. I just arrived a few weeks ago. Still learning my way around."

"Are you busy right now? I'd love to have you 'round for tea. I can't believe I ran into you!"

Sister Bernadette glanced at her watch and back up at Tim. "I'd love to come for tea," she replied. "I've got a while yet before compline."

"Great," he replied happily. "My house is about five minutes this way." He pointed in the direction he'd been walking, and they both started to make their way.

"Tell me, Timothy, what have you been doing with yourself since I last saw you in Poplar?" she asked.

Tim hesitated only slightly, hardly noticeable. For in truth, he was not entirely sure what to tell her. But he made the decision almost immediately to keep their discussion to the things that would not lead them astray. "Well, I finished school in Poplar. And when it came time, I applied to a few universities in London and closer to home and then Oxford on a lark. It's Oxford, so I didn't expect to get in, but I thought it might be funny to try and see. And miraculously, they accepted me. I lived in the dormitories while I was a student, which worked out for the best. Went back to Poplar during holidays. But I really liked it here, so after I finished my degree, I was able to use the money I'd saved up to buy a house with my friend Mike."

"I remember you always wanted to be a doctor when you were young. Is that still the case?"

"Not exactly. I still read medical journals and I'm very interested in science, but as I got older, I found I had a talent with drawing."

"I remember you being quite artistic as a child," she noted with a kind smile.

Tim nodded. "Well, that continued. I took science classes and art classes at Oxford. I ended up with a degree in Biology. And now I work as an anatomy artist."

"Anatomy artist?"

"You know all those diagrams in medical books of various organ systems and such?"

"Yes."

"I draw those," Tim said proudly. And he was proud. It was a strange and very specific job he had, but he absolutely loved it and considered himself quite lucky. He explained, "I work with a publisher that does textbooks and medical journals, and they send me the drafts to read, and I provide the drawings and diagrams and figures and things."

Sister Bernadette looked at him in slight awe. "What a fascinating profession! And wonderful that you can use all the things you love."

"It's the best thing I could have hoped for, actually. And it lets me work from home for the most part and set my own hours and things, so long as I meet the deadlines. And since I'm home most of the time, it lets Mike and me have our hobby." They had reached the street where Tim's little house stood, a bit rundown and small but with a freshly painted picket fence around the front garden. "This is the place. The garden out back is much bigger."

"It's lovely, Timothy," Sister Bernadette told him, looking at all the flowers and little quaint decorations that made Tim and Mike's house their home. "What hobby is it that you and Mike have?" she asked.

Tim smiled at that. "Come through to the back and I'll show you before we sit down for tea," he said. He led her quickly through the small parlor and kitchen to the door out to the back garden.

And when he opened the door and ushered Sister Bernadette outside, she gasped in delight. "My goodness!" she exclaimed.

The back garden consisted of rows and rows of flower beds and beside them on the grass was a large pen. Inside the pen were about half a dozen rabbits of different colors and sizes and shapes. "Mike and I raise rabbits."

Sister Bernadette immediately went up to the pen to greet the bunnies hopping about inside. Most of them scampered away from her as she approached, but one small brown one went to investigate. "They're adorable!" she gushed. The little brown rabbit allowed her to pet its tiny head with her pointer finger. "What do you do with them?" she asked, not looking away from the fluffy creature.

"We sell them to pet stores, mostly. And sometimes we'll take in injured or abandoned rabbits for rehabilitation. We don't do enough to make any real money at it, but Mike grew up on a farm with a million animals, and he likes getting to be with them. And now I just love them, too." Tim went to the bin on the patio and took out a huge handful of hay to give to the rabbits. He really should have picked up some more, but it could wait till tomorrow.

The introduction of more hay caused the rabbits to get a bit excitable, and Sister Bernadette's little friend went to join his friends. She stood up and dusted herself off. "What a lovely thing," she said.

"In the winter, we've got hutches for them. Some are better suited to cold weather than others, but we don't want to leave them out in the snow."

She nodded. "That makes sense."

"Shall we have that tea now?" he offered.

"Yes, please," she replied.

Tim took Sister Bernadette back inside the kitchen and told her to take a seat at the table. They did not have much space in their little kitchen, but it was perfectly serviceable. He went to turn on the kettle and get the tea things out. "It's a little weird making tea for you," he mused aloud.

"Is it?"

He turned to face her. "I've never made tea for you before. You always made things for me. Though not tea, I don't think."

"No," she said in agreement, "You were too young. I'm sure I got you milk and biscuits at the parish hall a time or two."

Tim nodded, laughing lightly at the memory. "You always kept me company when I'd come by on Tuesdays after school between clinic and Cubs."

"Yes, that's right. You always looked so sweet in your uniform," she said.

"I remember I hated the hat. I liked the look of it and I liked being in uniform with the rest of the boys. But I always hated wearing hates. Still do."

"Well now that you're grown, you don't have to wear hats if you don't want to."

"The freedom of adulthood is quite nice," he noted.

Her expression fell slightly at that, though Tim could not imagine why.

The kettle whistled and Tim switched it off and fixed the tea. He put the milk and sugar on the kitchen table before placing one mug in front of Sister Bernadette and taking his mug in his hand and sitting down across from her.

"Thank you very much, Timothy."

It did not escape his notice that she only called him Timothy. It was sort of nice. No one called him Timothy anymore. And hearing his name in her voice was more comforting than he could have imagined. All at once, he felt like a child again. A child who just wanted to be loved and cared for, a child who had a whole community of people who loved and cared for him after his mother could not. Those nuns, and Sister Bernadette especially, had been his family. They'd raised him from a grieving child into an intelligent, respectful, loving man. Dad could not have done it on his own, Tim knew. Even then, he knew. The surgery and the maternity home and the district patients were far too much for Dad to cover all on his own and still be around enough for his motherless son. And when he was busy with his work and couldn't get away, the nuns stepped in there, too. "Horlicks," he said suddenly.

"Horlicks?" Sister Bernadette asked in confusion.

"Yes," Tim remembered. "There was a night that Dad brought me to Nonnatus House when he was out on a call, and it took too long and it was very late. So you set me up in one of the spare bedrooms and made me Horlicks to help me sleep."

She smiled softly. "I remember. You were so unhappy that you couldn't go home and read your books before bed, and you were worried about what was going to happen. So I let you sit with me while I made you a mug of Horlicks and brought it upstairs and I sat with you and told you stories while you drank your mug in bed, and then I turned out the light and stayed with you till you fell asleep."

"Dad came in the middle of the night to bring me home. It was a Friday, I think, so I didn't have school the next day," he recalled.

Sister Bernadette's smile faltered. She took a sip of her tea, and Tim watched her as she very visibly gathered her strength before asking, "How is your father?"

Tim opened his mouth to respond, knowing that question was surely coming. But he closed it again quickly when he realized he did not quite know what to say. "I was about to say that he's the same. But that answer doesn't work with you."

"It doesn't?" she asked. The lines on her forehead, none of which Tim remembered from when he'd known her all those years ago, deepened with concern.

He shook his head. "He's the same as he's been for a long time, but it was different with you."

"Oh dear."

"It's not your fault. Not really. But it took us both a long time to be alright again after you left. And we're both fine now. It's just…different."

She frowned sadly. "Different how?"

Tim took a moment, trying to find the words. This was inevitable, he knew. Of course this was going to have to be addressed with Sister Bernadette. He'd tried to avoid talking about Dad to keep this from coming up, but this was Sister Bernadette. And even though she'd left them, Tim knew deep down that her leaving was not due to her lack of care for him or for his father. Rather it was for too much, if he had to guess. And because of that, she deserved to know what had transpired. "Sister, you have to understand, when we came to Poplar, it was just after my mother died."

"I remember," she said with a small, respectful nod.

"We were a mess. The both of us. And in various ways, we both tried to be strong and be happy for the other, even though it was hard. But then you…you…I don't know that you 'fixed' us, but that's sort of what it was. You loved me when I didn't have a mother to love me anymore. Not that you took her place at all, but I was cared for again, and I could heal. Dad, though, he was different. He was always overworked and overtired and overwrought with trying to take care of me and adjust to being a doctor in Poplar. And something about you filled up the hole in his heart for those few short months. He went from not being able to sleep from grief to being full of energy and smiles again. He was so happy. It was like he didn't think he could ever be happy again and then he was. And then…you left."

"Timothy, I…" she tried to say.

But he waved her off. "I know something happened and I don't quite know what. And I know you were sick and had to go away. But when you didn't come back, that hole in his heart that you filled, your leaving emptied it out again. And it's been there ever since."

Tears filled Sister Bernadette's eyes, but she did not let them fall.

Tim sighed. "He's alright, honestly. He's mostly retired now. And we had a really good life in Poplar after you left. He was a great doctor and everyone just loved him, and he worked with Nonnatus House and ran the maternity home. But even though I was young, I remember what it was like. I remember how it was for both of us when we were really, properly happy. And so now, I know the difference. He's not distraught and depressed. But I can tell that the hole in his heart that you left never got filled again."

Sister Bernadette's chin shook as she opened her mouth to say something, but they were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. "Oi, did you get more hay for the buns?" came a Northern accent shouting through the house.

"No," Tim called back. "I ran into an old friend. We're having tea."

Footsteps approached the kitchen. "Got company, have we?"

Tim smiled up at Mike, tall and blonde and gregarious and charming. "Yeah, Mike, this is Sister Bernadette. Sister, this is my friend Mike Howard."

Mike gave Tim a look of confusion, a look that communicated, _A nun!? Are you off you nut?!_ But thankfully Mike possessed enough tact to greet Sister Bernadette politely. "Pleased to meet you, Sister."

"And you," she replied. She'd been able to blink back her emotions and sit there clutching her tea as though nothing were amiss, as though Tim had not very likely succeeded in ruining her entire afternoon and entire day with what he'd told her.

Tim explained to Mike, "Sister Bernadette was a midwife in Poplar where I grew up. But I haven't seen her in…ten years, I think?" He turned to her for confirmation, and she nodded. Something told him that she knew exactly how long it had been.

"Would you like to stay for dinner? I know it's a ways off, but we've got a full house tonight. More the merrier," Mike offered.

"That's very kind of you, but I do have to be getting back to the convent soon," she declined.

But Tim was less concerned with her not staying for dinner. He turned back to Mike. "Hang on, what do you mean we've got a full house tonight?"

Before Mike could respond, the answer presented itself. The front door opened, and a jovial voice called out, "Mr. Andrews gave me a bottle of some awful sherry, and since I'm not going to drink it on my own, I thought we could make a night of it, boys. What do we say?"

Tim stared in horror as his father entered the kitchen. Dad's happy expression was wiped off his face as soon as he saw who was sitting at the table with Tim. His jaw dropped, and the bottle of cheap sherry from Mr. Andrews slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

_June 12, 1968_

Her heart stopped. In the moment she heard his voice—a voice she would never, ever forget as long as she lived—her breath caught in her throat. And the moment she saw him, she was certain her heart ceased beating, and she did not know if she could ever find a way to have it beat ever again.

And even in her shock, even with a roaring sound in her ears and a vice grip on her insides, a little voice in the back of her mind whispered, _Oh look at him, that beautiful man, he looks just the same!_

But of course he didn't look the same. His hair was nearly all gray now. When she had known him, he'd only had a few strands mixed in with the dark. But it was still styled just the same, combed back but flopping into his dear face. And his eyes, so dark and sparkling with joy, those eyes were staring at her in utter shock. His mouth, a mouth that had caused her such deep repentance for how often she'd dreamed of it, was open in a nearly perfect circle of surprise. It would be comical if the situation were not so incredibly unfunny.

He stood there, tall and lean as ever. Perhaps his belly had become a bit rounder over the years, but he still had that same lanky quality about him that fascinated and entranced her. Nearly everyone made her feel small, as she'd always been such a small woman, but there was something about him, the height and almost gangly quality of him that had made her feel safe somehow. He did not overpower her, but she always felt protected.

Not that she'd ever been in danger and needed protecting, of course. But the one time she had been frightened and had found that the habit she wore could not provide her any comfort, his hands on her skin, his stethoscope pressed to her chest and to her back, listening to the sounds of her breathing, the diagnosis did not scare her when she had him to heal her.

But he had not healed her. He had barely touched her, what with their strained relationship at that time, having gone from taking a step over the line of propriety and shuffling back to what they could salvage of their own dignity. And Sister Julienne had kept close watch. Her sister had not known, then, what she was really observing. For no one had ever witnessed the moments the two of them had shared that had so indelibly inked her soul.

She had thought of him at least every hour of every day when she was in the sanitorium. She had read his letters with trepidation and with joy. And when Sister Julienne had come to visit her, to ask of her recovery and of her plans going forward, if she was still experiencing the questions of faith and doubts in her vows, she had snuffed out the flame of hope in her heart. She had buried her longings with conviction in her fears. When she had told Sister Julienne that she wished not to return to Poplar but to the Mother House instead, her sister had taken that as a change in direction of her purpose, rather than a loss in it.

It had been a loss. She had been so lost, so confused and so unsure of what to do. She had not been brave, then, to take what she wanted, to claim it with her two hands and her whole heart. Her worries were too many. Though she had treasured his letters and the ones from young Timothy, she had not let them empower her. She had not given her faith to them, though she so desperately wanted to.

Instead, she hid. She recovered from illness and hid at the Mother House and did not allow any contact with her former life in Poplar. Never mind the loneliness and the often unbearable sadness that such a sharp break caused her. She had the love of her sisters and of the Lord, and that had to be enough. She was a nun, and that was her calling, and that was all she was allowed to ever have. She'd made her choice long ago. She made a vow. She could not go back on it.

But in all that time, of living a religious life without much—if any—religious conviction in her heart, she had been secure in the knowledge that she would never see him again. She would never need to face the consequences of her actions or see the result of her life if she'd been brave enough to choose another path.

Running into Timothy had been a surprise but a happy one. She could focus on him, on the relationship she had had with him when he was young, when she had been able to love and care for an intelligent, sweet, lonely little boy. Then, she had been happy. She had known her place and been happy in her work and in her life. Timothy was, in so many ways, tied to the best time of her life, even if he was inextricably tied to the one person she thought of constantly and could never allow herself to focus on.

But here he was. In front of her. Standing stock still in the kitchen of his son's home in the midst of a puddle of sherry and broken glass. Time stopped as they stared at each other with shock of this unexpected reunion. But then time sped up to catch them, as Mike went to grab a towel to mop up the mess and Timothy starting speaking, though it was obviously that neither of them were capable of hearing him.

"Dad," Timothy said sharply.

His dark eyes regained some consciousness. He blinked and turned to his son. "Sorry, here, let me…"

She could see that he was going to try and ignore her. Perhaps that was for the best. She was not prepared to interact with him either. And as he went to help Mike and Timothy clean up, she remained seated at the table, wondering how best to make her exit. "Can I help?" she asked weakly.

He turned to look at her, looking almost surprised that she had any voice at all. But he did not say anything to her.

Mike, though, obviously not knowing the source of tension in the room, waved her off jovially. "Don't worry yourself, Sister. We're used to a bit of mess here, us lads," he laughed.

She could not help but smile at that. Mike seemed a happy sort. Timothy never had possessed that kind of lightness. Even when he'd been happy and excited, he still embodied the heaviness of grief and loss. Though she had known him when he had only been without his mother just over a year. Perhaps he'd grown out of his somber personality. Perhaps this Mike was a good influence on him.

Since she could not be of any help, she figured now was as good a time as any to get away. "I should be going. I don't want to be in the way, and I need to be back at the convent for supper," she explained, standing up from the chair.

Timothy, crouched on the floor wiping up the mess with his father, stood. "Here, let me walk you out," he offered.

"No, it's alright," she refused. "You're busy. Thank you for the tea, Timothy. It was very nice to see you."

And before anyone else could say a single word to her, she practically scurried out the front door and onto the street. She walked quickly with her head down until she had gotten back to the main road. By that time, she was able to exhale properly.

As she continued on in the direction of the convent, she felt as though she were about to vibrate right out of her skin. The anxiety of it all was far too much. She had not ever experienced any heart troubles, but such a shock was not within the realm of the ordinary. The adrenaline come down almost made her want to cry. Perhaps she would skip dinner and go into her room and cry for a while before compline. That sounded like a nice idea.

No, that wouldn't do. If she were missing from dinner, her sisters would be worried about her. And what could she say? _The man I fell in love with a decade ago, the man I nearly broke my vows for, showed up while I was having tea with his son_. She could not reveal that to anyone. She could hardly even admit it to herself. She had never even said it out loud, that she loved him. And she had. She did. Still.

Still? Well, she wasn't quite sure about that. It had been a long time, of course. And it was hard to know, after so long, if she had ever really loved him to begin with. He had awakened something inside her she'd never known possible. But she had not given such a thing a chance to really live. Who could know if it was just some sort of schoolgirl infatuation that would have faded? If he had not pursued her as he had, or if she had returned to Poplar and he had not continued to treat her as he had, would her feelings for him have faded away? Well, such thoughts were not very useful now

Timothy had told her about him. About how he had been so sad and found hope and joy in being with her. And she had left a hole in his heart. A hole in his heart. Such words had hurt her deeply. For that was one thing she never, ever wanted to do. He and Timothy had been so sad when they'd come to Poplar, and to know that she had caused them more grief was just awful. Then again, that had been one of her biggest misgivings at the time. His wife had just died. He had been lost and searching for some semblance of happiness. Why or how he'd come to pin that on her, she'd never know. But she had believed—or wanted to believe—that he was still grieving and she herself was not what he wanted. Maybe something about her reminded him of his wife and so he had been drawn to her for that. It was unthinkable, then and now, that she was actually a true recipient of his affections.

Oh but what if she was? That thought had tempted her, all those weeks in the sanitorium. What if he did truly love her? What if he did really want to make a life with her? His kindness and longing and affection of his letters had fueled her doubt in herself and her vows. Didn't she want to live a life of freedom where she could be with him? Didn't she want more from her existence than being a nun allowed? Yes. The answer was yes.

But she had not given in to what she wanted. She had answered a call to a religious life, and her vows came with sacrifices. She had not just sacrificed the day she took those vows, but every day thereafter. And he was the greatest sacrifice of all.

If only he had not walked in when he had. If only she had not just heard from Tim how her presence in their lives, however short it was, had changed them both. If only Tim had not told her how her leaving had wounded them. If only she did not know that he had a hole in his heart caused by her. If only, if only.

She did not know what the purpose to such musings could possibly be. She would just have to be sure that she never crossed his path again. They could both go on with their lives, separate as they'd been these last ten years. And as she made her way up the steps of the convent, she felt secure in that choice. Even if such security was also tinged with displeasure.

"Sister Bernadette, we were expecting you back hours ago! Everything alright?"

"Yes, fine, Sister Bertha," she insisted. She also pasted a smile on her face and tried not to think about how the feeling she thought she'd overcome ten years ago was back: the name Sister Bernadette filled her with frustration and shame.

As much as she wanted to skip dinner and go up to her room and cry, she did not. No, she went right into the kitchen to help with the cooking, pretending she was absolutely perfectly normal and fine. She would pray with her sisters, she would sing to God, she would beg the Lord to free her from the guilt that she thought she'd put behind her.

But deep inside, she knew. She knew she would never be rid of Patrick Turner. Sister Bernadette had lost her heart and her faith ten years ago, when his lips had brushed against her hand. And despite her best efforts, she had regained neither her heart nor her faith in the time since she'd left him. She just hadn't realized it until she looked into his eyes and saw reflected back at her the desperate yearning she thought she could overcome.


	3. Chapter 3

_June 12, 1968_

He was crouched on the floor with towels, mopping up glass and sherry. She had just excused herself and left the house. And the slow-motion shock of the moment of seeing her had given way to the panic of the reality of it all as soon as he heard the sound of the front door close.

Patrick scrambled to try and get up to chase after her, but his bad knee protested vociferously, causing him to stumble and hiss in pain.

"Dad, no, you can't! Your knee!" Tim exclaimed, rushing to help him get into a chair before he did any more damage. As though he'd forgotten about his bloody knee.

He resigned himself to the necessity of sitting in the chair at the kitchen table, right across from the one she had just occupied. Every fiber of his being urged him to leap up and race after her, to catch her before she was gone again. Though part of him was not even sure it was really real, that she was really there, that she was not just a spectre from the past here to haunt him in his daylight hours as she haunted him though the nights he spent alone.

His heart was racing as his mind tried to ascertain what the bloody hell was going on. "What…" He trailed off. His voice was barely more than breath.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tim give a look to Mike. The latter continued cleaning up the mess as the former took his seat at the table once more. "Dad, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were coming over," his son told him.

There was concern etched all over Tim's face. And in that moment, Patrick's own feelings were pushed down and his instinct as a father took over. He saw in Tim's face the same little boy he'd held in his arms when he'd had nightmares after his mother died and it was just them two. He reached out to cup Tim's cheek in his hand. His hands were so much older now. Lined and weathered with age. And Tim's face was older, too. No longer the face of a boy but of a man. And Tim allowed him this moment of nostalgia, to be a father to a boy once again.

Tim reached up and took Patrick's hand in his own and gave it a squeeze. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Patrick closed his eyes for a moment, trying to take a deep breath and not get overwhelmed with his own flurry of emotions. "Tim, was that really her?"

"Yes," Tim answered simply.

He opened his eyes again. "How?" It was all he could manage to ask. What he really wanted to ask was 'What was she doing here?' 'How did you find her?' 'How long have you been seeing her?' 'Where has she been all this time?' 'Where did she go when she left us?' 'Why is she back now, after a decade away?' But instead, he could only seem to say that one simple word.

"I just ran into her in the street." There was a weakness in Tim's voice that Patrick knew was that of a boy who was worried he'd made his father upset.

"When?"

"Today. An hour ago."

That at least spared Patrick of the prospect that Tim had been seeing her without him knowing for much longer. That might have been more than he could bear, if Tim had kept it from him. Would he have kept this from him, if he'd not walked in when he had? Patrick really did not know. He and Tim had a very easy, open relationship. At least Patrick thought they did. He hoped they did. But when it came to her, things were much trickier.

Tim looked over to Mike, who was finishing the cleaning from where Patrick had dropped that bottle of sherry. "Mike, I'm so sorry," Patrick told him.

"Not to worry, Doctor T," Mike replied.

He was always a cheerful lad, that Mike. Seemed a good friend to Tim and a good housemate to have. Patrick had really grown to love him like a son as well. The three of them were something of a little family, Patrick thought. He spent more than enough time at Tim and Mike's house for it at any rate. But Mike was not privy to this history, and Patrick did not really want to speak about it any more with Mike right there.

Mike, bless him, seemed to read the room correctly. "I'm going to go out and feed the rabbits. We can start dinner when I get back," he offered.

"Thanks," Tim told him gratefully. The two shared a gentle smile before Mike went out back and Tim turned back to his father.

There was nothing to restrain Patrick now. He stood up from the chair, letting the legs of it scrape against the floor. "Was she really here, Tim? Did I really just…?" he asked, pacing back and forth.

"Careful of your knee, Dad," he warned.

"My knee is fine," Patrick snapped. He paused, sighing heavily and running his hand through his gray hair. "I'm sorry. This is all just a bit overwhelming."

"I know. I wouldn't have had you come without any warning like that. And I hope she doesn't think I trapped her somehow. I really didn't know you were coming over."

"I know you didn't, son," Patrick assured him. "But what was she doing here?"

"I saw her when I was walking home," he said. "I saw a nun turn the corner, and it made me think of her, of course. And then she looked up and I saw her. She's older, obviously, but she's just the same. Dainty and kind and smart."

Patrick could not help but smile. Those were all good descriptors of her, particularly from Tim's point of view. Patrick himself would have used slightly different words. Beautiful. Remarkable. Strong. Brilliant. Skilled. Perfect. He shook himself. "What's she doing here? Did she say?" he asked. That was really the heart of the matter.

Tim gave a small smile. "The Nonnatans sent a few nuns to Radcliffe."

There must have been a look on Patrick's face that gave away his immediate intention to run out the door to go to the infirmary and find her, because Tim laughed.

"I don't know where she lives, and you know she's gone to compline after supper," Tim told him quickly.

Patrick sighed again and came to sit back down in the chair quite heavily. He put his face in his hands. "I've got to find her, Tim," he said, his voice muffled into his palms.

"Yeah, I know."

He looked up. "Do you?"

"I know I was just a kid when she was in our lives, but I remember what you were like when she was with us and I know how you were after she left. And I told her that."

Patrick frowned. "What did you tell her?"

"That after Mummy died, you didn't know how to be happy until you met her. And she filled up the hole in your heart, and when she left, the hole emptied out again and it's been there ever since."

"Oh Tim, I…"

"I know you're alright. We got through and managed just fine. But can you honestly say I'm wrong?"

He paused for a moment, wondering if there way any way he could soften the blow, but he couldn't. "No. You're not wrong. You described it rather eloquently, actually."

Tim shrugged off the compliment.

"Did she…did she ask about me?" Patrick needed to know. He felt utterly pathetic to even ask, but he was so lost and in the dark about her, he just needed some clue about where her mind might be.

"She did. And that's what I told her. That you were fine, but you had a hole in your heart."

Patrick truly hated that description, mostly because it was so incredibly accurate. He had hoped so very much that Timothy might have been spared the ache that Patrick had suffered in varying degrees each and every day since the moment he had listened to that little nun's breath sounds and confirmed the diagnosis. He had been a man possessed, writing her letters and begging for some word from her. After all they'd been through, all the burgeoning feeling between them, he could not remain silent. He had needed her so badly and wanted her so much. It was true that it was perhaps too soon after Marianne's death that he'd lost his heart to another, but his wife had been sick for so long; Patrick had been mourning Marianne for almost a year before she eventually died. And then when he'd gotten the privilege to know _her_, his whole world felt turned upside down. He wanted to be with her, to speak to her, to listen to what she had to say, to ask her opinion and advice in all things, to see her smile, to hear her sing, to hold her in his arms and make her happy for all their days. The fact that she was a nun had barely crossed his mind sometimes. It was only her attire that reminded him most days. She was a better midwife than any he'd ever worked with, and her skill as a nurse was unparalleled. But for her name and her habit, she was just a woman to him, first and foremost. She was a woman with whom he had fallen so deeply and irrevocably in love.

"I never asked," Tim ventured, breaking the silence between them, "what happened."

That was a long story and one that Patrick did not quite know how to tell. "Not much of anything, actually. You know how dear she was to us both. She was a friend and so much more. And when she got sick and had to go to the sanatorium, I wrote to her."

"I remember. I had a butterfly I wanted you to send her."

Patrick smiled at the sweet memory. "And I did. I sent it to her for you. And I told her all that I felt for her, the way I missed her and the way I thought of her and the hopes I had in my heart. And she…" Confronting the end of the tale was never very nice for Patrick.

"She what?"

"She never responded. I asked Sister Julienne if there had been any word, and she told me that Sister Bernadette had recovered from the tuberculosis and she was going to the Mother House in Chichester and would not be returning to Poplar." That was the first time he'd said her name aloud in a very long time. Sister Bernadette. He didn't like thinking of that name, for he knew it was not her true name. She was never Sister Bernadette to him, other than as a title. She was always _her_, as herself. The whole of her person. So much more than the habit she donned and the saint's name she bore.

"Why?" Tim asked.

"I don't know. I can only guess. And that's why I need to find her, Tim," Patrick said vehemently. "I need to know what happened, if my beliefs were so one-sided, if I came on too strong, if she's truly happier now than when we were all in Poplar together."

Tim hesitated but then said, "She didn't seem very happy when I was speaking to her. For whatever that's worth."

For Patrick, that was worth quite a lot. It was worth a great deal to know that the woman he loved, the woman he'd wanted to make happy was not in fact happy now in the life she had chosen. And for whatever it was worth to her, Patrick knew he had to at least try to see if she might reconsider the choice she'd made ten years ago and see if she might now let him try to make her happy.


	4. Chapter 4

_June 13, 1968_

After Patrick and Tim had their talk about Sister Bernadette, Mike came back inside—Tim was rather sure he'd been waiting and looking through the window to see when it would be alright for him to return—and they all had dinner together. Nothing else was said about the nun in the kitchen, for which Tim was grateful. Whatever Dad was going to do was up to him. Tim could not steer him one way or the other, and he didn't want to. He wanted, more than anything, for his father to be happy. And only Patrick could determine what that would be.

Mike, always more sensitive and understanding than anyone gave him credit for, said nothing. He acted as though this were just a normal night for the three of them. Tim was eternally grateful. Mike could always be counted on to diffuse any situation. He just had that way about him, that casual good humor. That was probably why no one ever expected him to be observant about the deeper things. But Tim was lucky enough to know him better than anyone and also lucky enough to benefit from Mike's emotional intelligence.

Tim was also pleased to see that Dad put on a brave face about the whole thing. As soon as Mike walked back in the room, Dad forced a smile and eventually eased back into the fun, easy night they'd had planned before this whole thing started. The three men all cooked together and sat down at the table talking and laughing as though nothing was amiss.

The only real difference to the night was how long it lasted. Dad came for dinner about once a week. Sometimes more and sometimes less. They always ate relatively early and then Dad would stay for dessert, if there was any, and then head to his own home. But tonight, Patrick lingered. Tim certainly wasn't going to rush him, not after everything. And if he had to guess, he'd say that his father did not want to be alone just yet. Being alone would mean listening to his own thoughts. Those thoughts were probably not the most comforting at the moment.

So Tim did absolutely nothing to encourage his father to leave or to hint that it was getting late. And Mike followed that lead. The three of them all did dishes together—usually Patrick would offer and the boys would insist that they'd take care of it. And then they all sat around in the small parlor to watch a bit of telly. There was an episode of The Avengers on that they sat and watched. It was a nice enough diversion for an hour. After that, they watched BBC News for a while.

But it really was getting late. After midnight, in fact. Patrick was the one who finally said so. He bid the boys goodnight, giving his son an extra-long hug, and headed to his own home. Tim and Mike were finally left on their own.

"Right," Mike said, after locking the door behind Patrick. "Can we talk about what the hell went on here today?"

Tim sighed heavily. "Can we just put the buns to bed and brush our teeth first? This is going to take some time."

Mike looked at him with concern. "Yeah, okay."

The two of them did their normal nightly routine, making sure the rabbits were taken care of, putting away anything left out in the kitchen or parlor, and taking turns in the bathroom. Tim liked to brush his teeth and then get changed into his pajamas and get into bed while Mike like to change first and then use the bathroom. A convenient system for them both.

At last, everything was all done. Tim was sitting up in bed when Mike came in, turning out the overhead light on his way. Only the lamp at Tim's bedside illuminated them. Mike lifted the bedsheets and climbed in beside him. "Alright. Tell me what's going on," Mike said at last.

Tim sighed, wondering where to start. He scooted over and put his head on Mike's shoulder and felt the bone-deep sense of safety that always came when Mike put his arm around him. Lying in bed with Mike, knowing he was secure and loved, Tim finally felt able to try and explain. "I've never told anyone about it before. Never really said it out loud," he began. "But when I was eight, my mother died."

"Well yeah, I know that part," Mike teased.

He earned a nudge from Tim's elbow for that. "Well after Mum died, Dad got a job with NHS as the district doctor in Poplar, and he worked with the district nurses and with the midwives. And in Poplar, the midwives were nurses and nuns."

"And that little nun in our kitchen?"

Tim nodded. "That was Sister Bernadette. And she was a very special nun. The order of St. Raymond Nonnatus. All those nuns were wonderful in their way. I spent a lot of time with them while Dad was working. But she was different."

"Different how?"

"She was younger than most. Gentle and quiet. And she took an interest in me. She…she loved me. The other nuns and the nurses were kind and took care of me, but Sister Bernadette talked to me and made me feel safe and…well, in a way, she was like a mother to me when I didn't have one."

"I'm glad," Mike said. Tim could hear the smile in his voice.

"But I think—and this is really more of me thinking back to that time and piecing it together, I didn't really know anything when I was ten—but I think Dad fell in love with her."

"What!?" Mike laughed. "I mean, makes sense with how he acted, but she's a nun!"

"I know. And I can't imagine how hard that must have been. I explained it to her when she came for tea, that Dad was so distraught after Mummy died. And with her…it's like she taught him how to be happy again. You know what he's like, all enthusiasm and energy all the time. I don't even know what they saw in each other, but I know how they looked at each other. I can't help but imagine they had this sort of forbidden love."

Mike hummed. "You sure you're not reading into that? Maybe seeing yourself in your dad?"

Tim had not actually made that connection before, but Mike might have been right. Did Tim want to believe his father fell in love with a nun, a person he could not be with in the eyes of the world, because Tim himself had fallen in love with a man which led him to the same conclusion? "I don't know," he answered honestly.

But Mike did not press the issue. He just lightly kissed Tim's forehead. "So what happened with your Dad and Sister Bernadette?"

"She got tuberculosis. And she had to go to a sanatorium. I remember Dad telling me that she was going away because she was sick, and I asked if we could visit her. He told me we could write to her. Dad wrote to her all the time. I feel like every day when I came home from school or from Cubs, he was writing another letter to Sister Bernadette. I found a butterfly that I couldn't classify, and she always seemed to have the answers to everything, so I asked Dad to ask her for me."

"That's very sweet," Mike noted.

"Well, I was ten," Tim grumbled slightly.

Mike chuckled affectionately. "It's very cute. Did she tell you what kind of butterfly it was?"

"No," Tim told him sadly. And it was a sad response. It still hurt, to this day, the loss he'd felt at that time. "She never responded to any of his letters. And Dad asked Sister Julienne, the head of Nonnatus House, and she said that Sister Bernadette wasn't coming back to Poplar. And that's all we ever heard."

"Your poor dad. And you, of course. It must have been hard to lose her."

"It was."

"But it must have been hard for her, being sick with tuberculosis and having this attractive doctor and his adorable son madly in love with her."

"Did you just call my dad attractive?"

"That's not the point. I'm just trying to see it from her side. That must have been really frightening and overwhelming. I mean, she's a nun, and you Turner men are hard to turn down. I would know."

Tim fell quiet at that. He'd not thought, before, what it must have been like for her. Mike was entirely right—he usually was—that she must have felt so confused. Tim knew she loved them, as much as she could, and perhaps she'd loved them enough to want to return to them. But she was a nun, of course, and still was. And that wasn't going to go away. Tim did not know what Dad had put in his letters, but he imagined it was not just polite inquiries about her health and recovery. Perhaps she felt she had no choice, that she'd not be able to return to Poplar.

Mike broke the pensive silence. "So what happened today?"

He was grateful for the reprieve from the somewhat harrowing realization. "I saw her on the street. Just walking by. And I recognized her immediately, of course. So I invited her in for tea. And we got to talking. What she's doing in Oxford, what I do for my work. I showed her the buns, which she loved. And we talked a little about Dad. I just couldn't not tell her what it did to us to lose her like we did."

"Oh Tim, that wasn't fair of you," Mike lamented.

Tim realized that now, but it had not been in his mind at the time. "Well, I think it was worse to have Dad walk in when he did."

"That poor woman looked like she was going to faint."

"So did Dad."

Mike laughed lightly. "If it weren't so tragic and complicated, it would be funny."

"I guess so," Tim conceded.

"So how do you feel about all this? About seeing her again?" Mike asked, cuddling Tim closer to him.

"I really don't know. I'm okay, I think. I missed her and I was hurt, and it was nice to see her again. But just…she broke Dad's heart. And he'd barely mended it after losing Mum. He's not really had any interest in any woman, as far as I know, since then. I think after losing Sister Bernadette, he just sort of gave up and resigned himself to being a widower. He focused on being a doctor and he was a great dad to me, and you know how great he is to have around now. I just wish he could be happier, you know?"

Mike kissed Tim's head again. "I love how much you care about him."

"He's all I had, Mike. Before you, Dad was the only person I had. I'd do anything for him, just like how I know he'd do anything for me."

"I know, Tim. And you know I really like your dad. He's great. But it's you I love, and I just worry about what all this is going to do to you."

"Well, we don't know what's going to happen. It's up to Dad now, to figure it out."

"You don't want to see your nun again?" Mike asked.

"I do. But I think I need to wait and see what he does first."

Mike paused for a moment and said, "You know, I do think you're right."

"Right about what?"

"Just from the way those two looked at each other, I think you're right. I think he was in love with her. And I think he might still be."

"Yeah," Tim agreed. "I think so too."

The pair stayed quiet for a moment, each thinking about all that had transpired that day. Mike eventually gave Tim a nudge. "Turn that light out, eh? It's almost two in the morning. Let's try and get some sleep.

Tim turned out the bedside light and rolled back into Mike's arms. They softly kissed each other and whispered their I love you's and settled down to sleep. They both lay awake for a long time after that, though neither disturbed the other. There was nothing they could do anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

_June 14, 1968_

It had taken a whole day for her to feel like herself again. That night she'd seen Doctor Turner, she had forced a smile and joined her sisters for supper and prayed in compline. And yet she had not felt the love of Christ fill her heart as singing hymns had done before. There was a sense of comfort in it, in letting her voice go free as she sang. But it had been so long since she had truly felt her faith deep in her heart. More than ten years, in fact.

That had been what she had prayed so hard for, all those years ago. She had prayed for guidance and received none. The uncertainty of God, however, had been less daunting than the uncertainty of Doctor Turner. She had let everyone around her believe she had rediscovered her faith. But she had never confessed to anyone, not even God, nowhere outside her own traitorous heart, that she was far more afraid of allowing herself to love and becoming a disappointment than anything else. It would not have been so hard, she thought, to leave the church. If not being a nun were the only thing to consider, she would not have thought twice. But her sisters had loved her when no one else had. And she was not brave enough to give up the certainty of a life in the habit for the possibility of true happiness.

She had requested time off that next day, after spending a sleepless night thinking of Doctor Turner. Oh how wonderful he looked, his bright eyes still just the same. How often, these ten years away, had she been tormented by the dreams she still had of those eyes? She sometimes imagined she would love nothing more than to gaze up into his eyes for the rest of her days if she was allowed. But of course, she wasn't. She merely tossed and turned at night with the vision of his eyes in her head.

The head of Nonnatus House, such that it was, in Oxford was a very charming older nun named Sister Josephine. She was somehow a perfect blend of Sister Julienne and Sister Evangelina, she always thought: kind and gentle yet strictly adherent to the proper way of doing things. And it was Sister Josephine who saw the bags under her eyes and the hidden yawns.

"Sister Bernadette, are you quite well, my dear?" Sister Josephine asked at breakfast.

"Only a bit tired, Sister. I didn't sleep well," she confessed.

Sister Josephine frowned. "I am concerned that you may be over-taxing yourself. Perhaps a shift in the roster wouldn't be amiss. Take today to stay here, and Sister Bertha shall take your shift at Radcliffe."

And she had no reason to protest, so she agreed. She welcomed a day off, in fact. A day to sit in the chapel and pray and sing and guard her thoughts. Her sisters knew her as a somewhat distant sort anyway. No one would miss her.

Another change from who she had been a decade earlier. Sister Bernadette in Poplar had been a friendly, happy sort of person. Distant and aloof were not things anyone would have thought of her then. She felt lucky to not be in Poplar anymore and not have anyone truly witness the change in her that came when her heart had been left cold. It still beat and still carried her through her duties. After all, she still wanted nothing more in the world than to be a nurse and midwife, and that work was what sustained her. But outside of that, very little joy could be found for Sister Bernadette. And she still resented that name.

As she sat in chapel all day, she allowed her mind to wander. She thought about all she wished she could be. She wanted to be able to wear trousers the way so many women did now. She wanted to take her hair down and feel it fall around her shoulders. She wanted to see what she looked like wearing pink. She wanted to laugh loudly, and sing a rock and roll song, and dance the Watusi. And, as she quietly fantasized about all the ridiculous and wonderful things she could be free to do if she were not a nun, she also thought about how she might be able to see Doctor Turner again and hold his hand and kiss him and perhaps even more.

But reality came crashing down on her once more when Sister Margaretta came to join her in chapel for some quiet prayer. Her sister had asked her to sing, for her voice always added to the holiness of prayer. It was a generous compliment, one that she was proud—but not sinfully proud—to receive. And so instead of letting herself think any more about kissing Doctor Turner, she instead sang hymns until dinner.

It felt good, that next day, to get to go back to the hospital. She had slept better and felt refreshed. There were patients to see and things to keep her busy. The day would go by in a satisfactory fashion, and she would not be left to her own devices any longer.

But oh how wrong she was.

Just before lunchtime, something of a commotion was occurring in the waiting room outside the maternity ward. She tried to ignore it and pay attention to taking Mrs. Nelson's pulse, but it was far too distracting. Everyone was staring at the double doors. One of the nurses went to see what was the matter. And that was when she heard it.

"No, you don't understand, I need to see Sister Bernadette!"

She turned sharply and gasped. She would know that voice anywhere.

There were more sounds of struggle and protests from nuns and nurses alike and then a clatter before the doors slammed open. "Sister Bernadette!"

And there he was. He stood there, tall and with his chest heaving with labored breath. His beautiful dark eyes were looking around wildly until they found her. Of course, she was already staring at him after he had shouted her name to the whole room. And when their eyes met, she felt all the breath stolen from her body. If she were not frozen in shock, she might have collapsed from it. The air felt still and crackling with anticipation, though neither of them made any move nor made any sound.

"Sir, you cannot interfere! This is the maternity ward! You are causing a disruption to the new mothers!"

She blinked back to reality and acted before she could even think. "Nurse Jones," she called sharply to the young nurse trying to get him to leave, "if you could take over with Mrs. Nelson, I'll see to Doctor Turner."

Nurse Jones looked back at the madman who had just burst into the maternity ward. "Doctor?"

"Yes," he told her, his lips slightly pursed. "I am a doctor."

In spite of herself, she smiled. She walked with much more confidence than she felt across the ward to him as soon as Nurse Jones made her way, rather warily, to Mrs. Nelson.

"You shouldn't be here," she told him softly. Her heart was racing and she hardly knew what was happening, but her voice remained steady and even.

"I had to find you," he murmured in response as she drew nearer.

"I mean here in the maternity ward," she corrected. But his comment caused knots in her stomach. Oh this could not possibly be real.

"Can we take a walk?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

They both remained silent as they made their way down the stairs and out of the hospital. It was not until they reached the fresh air that he spoke again. "I'm sorry for causing such a scene."

Despite his sincerity and the inappropriateness of what he'd done, she laughed. "It was quite an entrance."

He smiled brightly. His smile, oh his smile! Even with grayer hair and more wrinkles on his face, he still had the most beautiful, joyful smile. "I ordinarily wouldn't be so insistent, only I thought maybe they were lying to me."

"Lying to you?"

"I came yesterday, and I was told you weren't working," he explained.

"You did?"

"Yes. I asked in two different departments and stopped a nun in the hall before I believed it enough to go back home. So today when I was told you were busy and couldn't see me, I'm afraid I became a bit…"

"Mad?"

He looked sheepish at that. "Yes, I suppose so. I must say, I feel a bit mad." He nervously pushed his hair back off his forehead from where it flopped in his face. What would his hair feel like under her fingers? This was not the first time she'd wondered.

The two of them were walking in a wide circle around the hospital, though it was obvious that neither of them had any sort of direction in mind. She wasn't quite sure what to say with him. All she knew was that it felt so incredibly nice to be taking a stroll with him this way. But she did need to get back to work eventually, and it was perhaps best not to waste time. "I didn't expect to see you at Timothy's house yesterday."

"No…I'm sure you noticed I didn't expect to see you."

"I don't know if he told you, but we just ran into one another in the street. It was a complete surprise," she told him, hoping he did not believe there was anything surreptitious going on.

"He did tell me. I did wonder if he'd been seeing you and not telling me."

She frowned. "Why would he do that?"

A rueful smile appeared on his face. "Tim's a good boy—man, now, incredibly. But I think he does a lot to try and protect me. And I wouldn't put it past him to hide you from me in an effort to spare my feelings. But he didn't, did he?"

"No," she answered. She paused, knowing she shouldn't ask her next question but not being able to stop herself. "Why would hiding me spare your feelings?" She knew, of course. Or she thought she knew. But she wanted to hear him say it. It was tempting trouble, surely. But it didn't stop her.

"Well, he said he told you what it was like after you left," he replied. The vague response answered her question, but it was not what she wanted to hear. But she would not press the issue.

"I behaved badly. I was so afraid and confused, and instead of facing things and talking to you, I ran away. And you deserved so much more than that. You and Tim."

He opened his mouth to respond but quickly closed it as his pace faltered slightly. "Could we sit down?" he requested, pointing to a bench.

She thought she noticed a slight limp in his gait, but she could not be certain. "It's a lovely day," she noted, feeling the awkwardness of their conversation hit her more fully now that they did not have the walking to distract them.

"It is a lovely day. All the more lovely to spend it with you," he said.

Her breath hitched at his words.

But he must have recognized his mistake. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't say things like that to you."

"You've said a lot of things to me that you shouldn't. But I suppose that was a long time ago," she reasoned.

"Yes," he agreed softly. "Sometimes it feels like another life. But sometimes…"

"It's like it was just yesterday," she said, finishing his thought.

"Yes," he said once again.

They fell into another slightly awkward silence. Neither of them knew what they were supposed to do. Ten years was a lifetime, it felt. And yet here they were, as though no time had passed. Sitting beside him felt like it always had. Her heart beat faster, her stomach tied in knots, his every word and movement captured her attention, his entire presence lifted her spirits. They were both older and perhaps wiser and certainly sadder, but they were somehow right back where they started.

"Where did you go?" he asked suddenly. "After the sanatorium. Where did you go?"

"The Mother House in Chichester," she replied. "They run an orphanage there, and after some time to reflect, I worked with the children for three years. And after that, I was sent to a rural area of Norfolk for another three years as a nurse and midwife. Then back to the Mother House before I was sent here."

He turned to look at her, his face filled with concern. "Why did you never come back?"

"I was not sent back. It was not my place to ask. Once I made the decision to go to the Mother House, I could only perform what Mother Mildred assigned," she told him. Though obviously it was not the whole truth of the matter.

"But you could have come back. To visit, at least."

"I couldn't," she insisted.

"You weren't allowed?"

"I couldn't bring myself to try. I think it would have hurt too much. It was best that I never went back to Poplar." A lump in her throat formed at that statement, knowing how much it had hurt her to not return to the place that had been so truly her home and knowing how that decision had affected him and Timothy both.

"Best for who?" he asked sadly. That quiet tone of his voice was nearly enough for the tears to fall.

And she did not have any answer. She did not offer one.

With a small grunt, he pushed himself up from the bench. "I think I have taken too much of your time," he said.

She quickly stood. "Oh…alright, yes," she stammered slightly.

He looked down at her, searching her face for something she did not know, and sighed. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. But you see, I never thought I'd see you again."

"Neither did I."

"And to find you in Tim's kitchen was something out of a dream."

"Was it?" she breathed.

"Yes. I'm glad we could talk just a little. It was…almost like it used to be," he said. He gave a sad smile, so very bittersweet.

Before she could think about the words, the fell out of her mouth. "Would you like to have lunch tomorrow?"

His entire face lit up. "Really?"

"Yes. If you'd like to meet me in front of the hospital at one o'clock? We can go to the café across the way," she offered.

"That would be wonderful."

She felt herself blushing, but she could hardly care. "Good. I'll see you then."

"See you tomorrow. Goodbye, Sister."

With a bright smile, she replied, "Goodbye, Patrick."


	6. Chapter 6

_June 15, 1968_

Patrick. _Patrick_. She'd called him Patrick. It just went over and over in his head all day and all night and all morning. The way her beautiful voice with that adorable Scottish brogue said his name was something out of a dream. How often had he longed for that, all those years ago? He would have given anything for her to call him by his name, to call him _Patrick_ instead of Doctor Turner.

He wondered, for a moment, how she knew his name, having never called him by it before. But of course she would have seen his patient notes that he'd signed all those years ago. And there was a more obvious reason, too. A reason he didn't often like to think about.

She knew his name because he had signed his letters to her with it.

Oh those letters had been a horrible mistake, he knew. Well, now he knew. Then, he'd been desperate and made foolish choices in her regard. He had not given pause to think about what his advances must have looked like to her. He had not stopped to think how she might receive them. He had only wanted with a yearning that frightened him to share with her all that was in his heart. He had poured his very soul into those letters. At first, he had just inquired after her health and told her about Tim and the happenings around Poplar. And then he started to get a bit more poetic, to put it kindly. What a daft idiot he'd been. The things he had told her. And she was a nun!

That was the rub of it all for him, then and now. Talking to her and being with her, it didn't ever feel like he was spending time with a nun. Obviously she wore the habit and hid her hair under the wimple and she lived in a convent and prayed with her sisters, but when he thought of her, it was just _her_. He did not have the same luxury she did, in that regard; he did not know her real name. For he felt as thought Sister Bernadette was a title she bore to denote her station just as Doctor Turner denoted his.

Was it significant, then, that she had called him Patrick? Did she think of him and feel for him as he did her, that yearning to know the person who bore the more formal appellation? It almost seemed too much to imagine, that after the foolish intensity of his letters where he'd poured his heart out to her only to be met with silence, she would feel anything akin to that for him. Particularly after so long. Ten years now. An entire decade. A decade where he had grown older and grayer and slower, gaining only pounds and aching joints. If she'd ever possibly wanted anything to do with him before, he was far less of a prize now.

Though really, he didn't have any right or reason to feel this way now. He had long accepted that he would grow old with only his son for company. Tim took such good care of him, and Patrick did his best to return the favor. But Tim was a man with his own life and perhaps one day a family of his own, and Patrick certainly did not want to stand in his way. It had been a very long time since Patrick had any real belief that he might find anyone to share his life. After Marianne, he was still barely young enough to start over again with someone. That had been a difficult realization, that he might ever love a woman ever again. It was supposed to be Marianne he grew old with. They had wanted more children, they had wanted to travel, they had wanted to buy a house in the country with room outdoors for Tim and any other little ones to play. But then she had gotten sick, so sick for so long, and that dream had died with her, he thought. And of course, Patrick being the impossibly foolish man he always was, had gone and fallen in love with a nun. The one woman who would never be able to love him as he did her, the one woman who would not be able to share his life as he so desperately hoped she might. He'd held onto hope, writing those letters, hoping that if she understood how true and deep and earnest and honest his feelings for her were, she would respond in kind. Foolish, foolish, foolish.

So why was it that he was walking to the hospital to meet that little nun for lunch with a feeling of very dangerous hope flickering in his heart? What did he really think would happen? She was still a nun. They hadn't seen each other in ten years! Yet seeing her that evening in Tim's kitchen had brought his feelings back like being hit by a freight train. And their short conversation the day before had only added to his foolish, foolish hope.

When he arrived at the hospital, she was standing there out front waiting for him. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting," he said in greeting, walking as quickly as his knee would allow up toward her.

"No, I just finished up my morning rounds and smartened myself up and came outside about two minutes ago," she replied.

He faltered slightly. She smartened herself up for him? Surely she just meant that she had been doing something a bit messy and had cleaned up to be presentable. She didn't…she mustn't have tried to improve her appearance for his sake. She…well, she wasn't allowed, was she?

"I thought just sandwiches across the way?" she suggested, after he did not answer.

"Yes, right, that's perfect," he answered quickly. Already she'd put him on the back foot and he was left all confused and disoriented. But that little flicker of hope in his heart was being fanned into a tiny flame.

They walked side by side across the street to the small café. The weather was very nice, but they sat inside. By the window, at least. There were small paper menus tucked into the wire napkin holder. He took one menu for himself and passed the other to her and they perused for a moment.

"Do you come here often?" Patrick asked. Immediately he regretted saying it that way. That was the sort of line the men would use with women by the bar back when he was a soldier.

Thankfully, she did not seem to notice or mind his unfortunate phrasing. "I've never been here, actually. But some of the nurses seem to like it. I overhear them talking about coming here to get some fresh air sometimes or meeting their boyfriends for lunch." She blushed at that, and Patrick wasn't entirely certain if it was the mention of the nurses meeting boyfriends or the small implication that the same could be applied to the two of them.

"I've never been here either. The menu seems nice," he replied, not wanting to make either of them any more uncomfortable with any more talk of boyfriends.

A young man came over to take their order. He looked slightly warily at Sister Bernadette, though she paid him no mind, and he went off to get their food.

"May I ask you something?" Patrick began, leaning forward slightly, hoping not to be overheard by the other patrons in the café.

"Yes, of course," she replied.

"Why did you never reply to my letters?"

She frowned and looked down at the fork on the table in front of her. Perhaps it was a bit too much to start with, but he couldn't help it. That question had plagued him for ten long years, and he knew he had to ask her while he had this opportunity.

Patrick watched her as she tried to gather her thoughts and find the words. He had never known her to be particularly shy before. She was so small and somewhat quiet, but never really shy. She wasn't brazen like Sister Evangelina had been, God rest her soul. She wasn't cool and serene and beatific like Sister Julienne. She wasn't whimsical and wise like Sister Monica Joan. Back when Patrick had known her and loved her, she had been only a few years older than most of the nurses, he imagined. He did not know precisely how old she was, but the wimple covering her hair, to him, always made her both older and younger than her years. Her smooth, soft, pale skin was that of a beautiful young princess in a fairytale. But she carried herself with such poise, and the brilliant blue eyes behind those horn-rimmed glasses and the elegant but stern curve of her lips always gave her an element of gravitas that no young woman ever really possessed. She was always a contradiction in terms to him. And as he sat in the café and watched her now, he still saw so much of the same woman. Her skin was still soft and pale, though the years had added wrinkles and removed the suppleness she once possessed. Her eyes were just exactly the same. But her lips seemed more accustomed to a frown than they one had, and the realization of that small detail left him with a knot in the pit of his stomach as he waited for her to respond.

"I was afraid," she finally said. But she explained further, "I was overwhelmed by the depth of your letters and all that your words said. You were a man…so very much a man. A man…in love, if I could dare to say such a thing."

"You can dare. Because I am rather sure I told you exactly that in those letters," he said resignedly. Oh he could just kick his younger self now.

But miraculously, a small hint of a smile appeared on her lips. "It was twice. I know it was twice that you told me you loved me. One of your letters said it and the very last one repeated it. And the last four letters you sent me ended 'All my love, Patrick,'" she recalled.

"Yes. I am sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" she asked with concern.

"Because it wasn't fair of me to say such things. It was…well, obviously it was too much."

"Did you mean it?"

"I meant every word I wrote to you," he replied earnestly. _And I still do_.

"Then you should not apologize for it. We can't be sorry for sharing the truth with one another in this world. There isn't nearly enough of it nowadays."

Patrick could not help but smile. She had grown even wiser over the years, it seemed. "Well, it overwhelmed and frightened you, and for that I am sorry. Even if I did mean what I said and I do not necessarily regret saying it."

She opened her mouth to reply, but their food was placed on the table in front of them and they started to eat instead.

Other than to comment on the food, they did not speak at all for a little while. Patrick noticed the way people continued to stare at them. Even passersby who saw them through the window were pointing and whispering. Surely they made an odd pair, but he did not think that such things were entirely warranted. Had no one ever seen a nun out in public before? Oh god, that was probably it! She was a nun having lunch out in public with a man. That couldn't be appropriate, could it? He hadn't really thought anything of it when she had asked him yesterday, but perhaps it was more important than he imagined.

As if reading his mind, she swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and said, "I'm not really supposed to be here. Nuns aren't necessarily disallowed from being out and about, but it's really not something we do."

"Oh, should we…"

"No," she interjected. "I asked you to have lunch at the café. I knew what I was doing."

"So why…?"

She smiled. "I wanted to see you again. And lunch is as good a time as any."

He smiled back at her. "I'm glad. I…well, I've always liked spending time with you. And I can't tell you how it feels to see you again after all these years."

"I think I know," she replied softly.

"Do you?" he breathed, unable to fathom that she had said such a thing.

She nodded. "I wasn't afraid of what you said to me in those letters. It was like a dream come true, to know that you could possibly feel that way about me. And I was overwhelmed by the idea that you could feel that way and that I…I wasn't…"

Patrick frowned. His heart pounded in his chest as his brain processes that she called his love for her _a dream come true_. "You weren't what?" he asked, terrified of what she would say.

"I wasn't enough. I was not afraid of your love, Patrick, but I was afraid of taking the risk of letting anything happen between us and us both finding out that I was a disappointment."

His jaw dropped. It wasn't polite or proper, but neither was having lunch with a nun in public. "Was that why you left?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes," she admitted. "And that was why I am still a nun."

If Patrick felt like he'd been hit by a freight train with the memory of the feelings he'd had for her, it was nothing compared to this. This was a bombshell. And Patrick had experienced actual bombshells before. The feeling was not dissimilar. He was not on a battlefield but instead in a small café. But this was…

The bill was placed beside Patrick as the empty plates were collected. He just stared in shock, trying to wrap his head around this. She was afraid of being a disappointment _and that was why she was still a nun_.

"I don't know what to say." And that was all he could say at that.

"There's nothing to say, Patrick. But I wanted to tell you the truth. You were brave enough to tell me the truth in your letters. And I wasn't brave enough to do the same. But after talking to Tim the other day, I knew I owed you this much. Not that it really matters much, after all these years. Too much has changed, I know."

"Nothing has changed," he insisted sharply. He could feel his mouth running away with him as it did when he got excitable about things. Nothing had ever warranted the feeling so much as this. "The only thing that's changed is the years. And it matters very much. Very, very much."

It was her turn to stare at him in shock now. "Really?"

"Yes," he replied resolutely.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

She looked down at her wringing hands. "I think I have a lot to think about."

"We both do," he agreed softly. Before he forgot, Patrick took his wallet out and paid for their lunch.

"Thank you," she said.

"It's my pleasure." And it was his pleasure. Very much his pleasure.

They gathered themselves and stood, walking back to the hospital. She had to go back to work, after all. As they approached the entrance to the hospital, she paused and turned to him. "Do you have a card? Or something with your phone number?"

"Oh yes, here," he answered, scrambling for his wallet again to take out one of his cards. He had a very limited general practice out of his little house, though he was mostly retired at this point. He handed the card to her and shivered when her finger brushed against his.

"I hope I can call you sometime. I know I'll be busy with work and I do need to think about all of this, but I don't want to go another ten years without seeing you," she told him.

"No, neither do I," he replied.

She gazed up at him, looking small and lovely and somehow as full of hope as he felt. "I'll see you soon, Patrick."

He felt like his whole body was melting into jelly right then and there. "Good," was all he could manage to say as she smiled and turned away to go back to her work.


	7. Chapter 7

_June 20, 1968_

Tim felt himself falling into the abyss. Mike's big, strong arms were around him, holding him tight. Mike's plump lips were caressing his as Tim teased his tongue. Tim reached down to Mike's bum and pulled him closer. Their hips slotted into place as they both started to get hard with arousal.

The front door burst open. "Tim!?"

Mike and Tim both sprang off each other, breathing heavily and looking at each other wide-eyed. "Outside," Tim croaked.

With a slightly dazed nod, Mike hurried out back to tend to the rabbits. Tim sat down at the kitchen table to hide the fact that his trousers were still a little tight.

"Kitchen," he called to their visitor.

A second later, Timothy's father entered the kitchen. "I'm glad you're home. Do you have some time to talk?"

Tim had to clear his throat as his mouth was dry from adrenaline and his heart was still pounding from the abrupt interruption to his midday dalliance with Mike. "Sure, Dad, what's going on?" he asked, willing his mind to focus and his body to calm down.

Dad looked around the kitchen somewhat wildly. He did that sometimes, Tim knew. Dad had a tendency to be a bit frazzled. "Shall I make tea?" he asked.

"Sure." Tim did not bother getting up. Dad knew where everything was.

Tim stayed quiet while Dad went around with the kettle and the tea things. Dad was the one who wanted to talk, and Tim knew better than to rush him. And if Dad wasn't looking so upset for whatever reason and hadn't burst in like a man possessed, Tim would be extremely cross about the interruption to what was sure to be a very fun and pleasurable afternoon. Instead, he was just a bit frustrated but becoming more and more worried by the moment.

At last, Dad sat down with two mugs of tea for them. They each took a sip. "So? What do you want to talk about?" Tim asked, needing the suspense of it all to be over with.

"I went out with her."

Tim knew who he was referring to. "You what!?"

"We had lunch together. I went to the hospital to see her two days after she was here. And we had a little walk and talked a bit and at the end of it, she asked me if I'd meet her for lunch the next day, so I did."

It boggled the mind that such a thing had happened. "You took a nun to lunch?"

"Yes. And she said she wasn't strictly disallowed from it but it wasn't something that was much done."

"No, I can't imagine many nuns go out to lunch in public with men. Dad, what were you thinking?"

"I had to, Tim. I had to see her. I had to talk to her. And she was the one who asked me to lunch. I wasn't going to say no. I can't say no. Not to her."

It absolutely broke Tim's heart to hear his father sounding so desperate and conflicted. For all that he'd spent most of Tim's life without a woman, Tim knew his dad to be a passionate sort of man. He threw his whole self into everything he did. With his advocacy and care for his patients, with his defense and protection of his son, and with his love of a woman, it seemed. Patrick Turner was not a man who did anything by halves. And he had absolutely lost his mind and his heart to Sister Bernadette. The one woman who couldn't return his feelings.

"She loved me," Patrick said.

"What?!" Tim asked sharply.

"She said so. Well, not in so many words, but she told me that me telling her of my feelings in my letters all those years ago was a dream come true."

Tim frowned. "So why didn't she respond? Why did she leave?"

"I asked her that, too," he replied. "She said she was afraid of taking the risk of returning my feelings only to be found to be a disappointment."

"Poor Sister Bernadette."

Dad shook his head. "I never though of her as insecure. She's always been so self-possessed, so strong and capable in all she does."

"As a midwife and nurse, sure," Tim interjected. "But she's a nun, Dad. I don't know when she became a nun, but I can't imagine she lived much of a normal life as an adult beforehand. Has she ever even been out on a date with a man before? Or all the rest that comes from dating and…what do people your age call it, courtship?"

Patrick gave him a slight glare at that remark. "I'm not from the Victorian era, Tim."

"Well I don't know, Dad, it's the sixties now and things are different. But I bet she wasn't much older than me when she became a nun. No wonder she'd feel insecure about you being madly in love with her. What's she supposed to do?" Tim pointed out. Mike had been the one to point out this perspective to Tim, and the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Dad could be an overwhelming personality. Tim almost didn't blame Sister Bernadette for running away rather than having to confront Dad and hurt him with a rejection. Though, as Tim knew all too well, the not knowing and the uncertainty of it all had been so hard for him to take.

"I just don't know," Patrick replied, scrubbing his face with his hands. "And now, after that…that bombshell, she's disappeared again."

"How do you mean?" Tim asked.

"I haven't seen or heard from her since our lunch."

"Well, how did you leave things? She told you she felt the same about you so it can't have gone so bad."

Patrick sighed. "She asked for my card for my phone number and she said she didn't want it to be another ten years since we saw each other."

"And?"

"And that was all. That was five days ago. She hasn't called or written or anything. I've left the house to go to the hospital to see her again a million times since then, but I keep stopping myself. I caused…well, I caused quite a scene when I went the last time."

Tim raised his brow in interest. "How did she take that?"

Patrick gave a small smile. "I don't think she minded, actually. But I don't know if she got in trouble about it, and I didn't want to cause any more problems for her. And I know I…I overwhelmed her the last time. I don't want to make the same mistake again."

"Hmm," Tim hummed.

"What's that for?"

Tim regarded his father curiously. "Do you really still feel the same for her after all these years? Ten years is a long time, Dad."

Patrick frowned. "I know it's a long time. It's a long time to be alone. And it's not as though I spent every day of those ten years pining after her. You know better than anyone that I got through everything alright. Maybe a little sadder than I should have been, but I had my work and I had you, and we were alright, right?"

"We were better than alright. But when I was explaining all this to Mike, I told him that I wish you could have been happier, and I do. I wish you had more than just me and your work."

"You told Mike?"

"We tell each other everything, Dad. But he's outside giving us our privacy."

Patrick sighed, "Well don't bother with that. If he knows everything anyway, it doesn't much matter, does it?"

Tim stood up and smirked when he knew his father couldn't see. He crossed to the back door and opened it. Mike was in the pen with the bunnies, playing with them all. "Dad and I are having tea. Want to join us?" he called out.

Mike looked at him with that heart-melting smile. "Sure."

He stood there for a moment, just watching Mike. Tim liked watching him. He was a beautiful man, but when he smiled…oh that was it. Before Tim even really understood what it meant, he fell in love with Mike the first time he smiled. And even now, after two years together, Tim still felt those same butterflies whenever Mike smiled at him.

The two of them came inside, resisting sharing a kiss as they would have if they were alone. But when they caught each other's eye, it was clear they were both thinking the same thing; they'd make up for it later.

Mike made himself a cup of tea and another for Tim and Patrick. Tim caught him up on the conversation. "Dad was just going to try and explain to me how he can possibly still be in love with Sister Bernadette after not having seen or spoken to her in ten years."

"Love doesn't die, Tim," Mike said. His tone was more serious than Tim was used to hearing from him in the company of others. "It might change or fade or grow, but it doesn't die. Isn't that right, Doctor T?"

Patrick smiled serenely. "Yes, Mike, I think that's very true. And I think that's exactly what's happened to me. I loved her deeply, all those years ago. If she would have accepted me, I was ready to sit down and discuss it with you, Tim, and with your agreement, I wanted to make her my wife. I had visions of her living in that flat in Poplar with us. Maybe having children together."

Tim smiled. "I'd have liked a little brother or sister. She would have been such a wonderful mum."

The look on Patrick's face turned from wistful to sad very quickly. "Yes, well, too late for all that now. And I knew it. When she didn't return to Poplar, I knew I'd never see her again. And after feeling so strongly as I had for her, I couldn't even begin to imagine feeling like that about anyone else. There were women over the years, sisters of patients and women in shops and things, who might flirt with me a bit."

Mike nudged Tim. "Told you."

"What?" Patrick asked.

Tim groaned in slight annoyance. "Mike said the other night that it must have been overwhelming for a nun to receive the attentions of an attractive doctor."

Patrick brightened at that. "Well, thank you, Mike. And I suppose being a doctor helped my cause quite a bit to the fairer sex, but I just couldn't be bothered, honestly. Every woman I met, I compared to her. And I couldn't picture anyone but her in those dreams I'd had."

"And you've held onto that all this time?" Tim asked.

"It faded. There have been whole months where I haven't thought of her at all. As you said, ten years is a very long time. But seeing her again, it all came flooding back. And getting to talk to her and be with her…it's like no time has passed. She's older, and I'm sure she's changed, but I feel as though…as though we just stepped back in time. It feels like just before that festival."

"What festival?" Tim interjected. Was there a festival that had some significance? He couldn't remember one.

Dad gave a rueful smile. "Ah, see? There are some things you didn't notice," he said with a chuckle. "You remember when she was your partner for the three-legged race? And she fell going over the finish line?"

"Oh yeah, that's right," Tim recalled.

"Well, she scraped her hand in the gravel and went into the kitchen of the parish hall. I went to go see if she was alright and…"

Mike gasped teasingly. "Doctor Turner!"

"No, don't," Dad laughed. "It wasn't like that. I… I took her hand to see to the cut, and I kissed it."

"Dad, she's a nun!"

"Yes, Tim, we've established that," he replied sardonically. "And that's why she pulled away. And she said she pulled away because of Him."

"Him?" Mike asked in confusion.

"God."

Mike exclaimed in understanding, "Oh because she's a nun. Sure."

Tim rolled his eyes at his boyfriend and turn back to his father. "And is that why she left?"

"No, it was a few weeks later that we did the tuberculosis checks and I was able to diagnose her. But there was a tension between us. We'd been leading up to something for so long and I was the one who finally made a move. It was stupid, of course, but I can't bring myself to regret it."

"And you want to do that again?" Tim asked.

"I love her, Tim. I want to do quite a lot more than kiss her hand."

Tim laughed. "Criminy, you're lucky I'm not ten anymore or I'd have a lot more questions."

"We wouldn't be having this conversation if you were ten, Timothy," Dad replied.

"Well, good for both of us then."

"Quite."

They all paused for a moment, processing all that Patrick had told them. It was Mike, as usual, who broke the silence. "So what are you going to do, Doctor T?"

"I don't know, Mike," Dad replied. "I suppose I just have to wait for her. But it's killing me to not do anything."

Tim's mind began turning. Dad was right to not do anything. He needed to wait. But maybe Tim could do something. He'd have to give it some thought.


	8. Chapter 8

_June 18, 1968_

It was a different address. That had been a jarring realization. The idea that it would be a different place. The streets still looked the same, though so much had changed. The building, though, that was perhaps what was most difficult to wrap her head around.

As soon as she had left her lunch with Patrick and returned to her shift on the maternity ward, she knew what she needed to do. She had gone straight back to the Oxford Nonnatus House to speak with Sister Josephine. And she was so full of conviction with what she needed to do, it had not even occurred to her to be nervous.

"I need to go to Poplar, Sister," she said.

"Poplar? Whatever for?" Sister Josephine replied.

"I have some unfinished business there. It's been a very long time, but I'm afraid that Sister Julienne in Poplar is the only one I can talk to."

"Sister Julienne? But you haven't seen or spoken to her in…"

"Almost ten years," she supplied. "But that's why I need to see her."

Sister Josephine frowned. "And you cannot speak to me about what has been bothering you?"

She fell silent, feeling a twinge of guilt. Sister Josephine had always been kind and good to her. But Sister Josephine was not the figure in her life that Sister Julienne had always been. And, to be perfectly frank, she was not the same person she had been in Poplar. And returning to Poplar and speaking to Sister Julienne seemed the only possible avenue.

"Since you came to us from the Mother House, you have been quiet and aloof. And I know that you are by nature a quiet person. But I have heard stories about you, Sister Bernadette, of your strength and grace and prodigious skill as a midwife. And there was a warmth with which Sister Julienne described you to me before you were assigned here. I must confess that I have not seen it," Sister Josephine said.

She hung her head. "I have changed quite a lot since my days in Poplar with Sister Julienne. And I have changed a lot in the last week. There are things…things from my past…things I never thought I could ever or would ever confront ever again."

"And you are confronting them now?" Sister Josephine asked.

She raised her gaze and said resolutely, "Yes. I am confronting them now in a way I couldn't in Poplar. And I find myself at a point of decision as I was then. I…I think I made the wrong choice then. I was not honest with myself, and I was not honest with my sisters who tried to help me. I want to be able to correct it now that I have the chance."

Sister Josephine nodded. "I'll call Sister Julienne in Poplar and tell her to expect you in two days' time."

"Two days!?"

"It would not be right to spring a visit on our sisters in Poplar. Nor would it be right to rearrange the hospital schedule so abruptly. Do you think you can complete your business in Poplar and return with only an overnight stay? Or do you require two nights?" Sister Josephine had changed from kind sympathy to strict efficiency quite quickly.

"Two nights, I think," she replied. The train ride to London would not be so long, but between the 'business' she needed to complete, she wanted a little time to revisit Poplar and the people and places she had left behind those ten years ago.

"Fine. I shall arrange your travel, leaving on Saturday and returning to us on Monday."

She nodded. "Thank you, Sister."

All through Friday, she was a mess of anticipation and anxiety. Now that she had decided on what she needed to do, having to wait to do it was quite difficult. Her life as a nun had taught her patience. But it had also taught her selflessness, and not in ten years had she experienced a more pressing issue to her own self. And in that regard, she had so very little patience in handling such things.

But the work kept her busy and as distracted as she could manage, and Saturday finally arrived. She packed a very small suitcase and took a cab across the city to the train station. She had not traveled by train in a very long time, but it was a nice change from the bus, which was the usual mode of travel for most of her life. And the whole way from Oxford to London, she thought about what she wanted to say to Sister Julienne.

She left Paddington Station and took a cab to Poplar and decided to walk the rest of the way. Sister Josephine had given her the address of the new Nonnatus House. New Nonnatus House, what a thing! The old Nonnatus House had been her home for nearly thirteen years. But those old walls—for they were very old by the time she left—had not been able to keep the sisters safe any longer. They moved to another part of Poplar. It was an area she knew well, of course, though as she walked, she was amazed by how time had changed the East End. So much was exactly the same. And yet so much was different. Ten years was a long time, after all. But something about Poplar was still somehow timeless.

At last, she reached Nonnatus House. It was a beautiful building in a lovely courtyard. If Nonnatus House had to move, it had surely found a beautiful spot to now call home.

"'Afternoon, Sister!"

She turned when a man's voice greeted her. She gasped, "Fred!"

He stood up and squinted at her. "Blimey, Sister Bernadette? Is that you!?"

"Yes, it's me," she replied, rushing over to greet the groundskeeper she had not seen in so very long. "It's quite nice to be remembered," she told him.

"It's been a long time, Sister, but what are you doing back after so long?" he asked.

"I came to see Sister Julienne. It's a private matter, I'm afraid, but I was grateful for the opportunity to come back to Poplar. I'm so glad to see you, Fred. How have you been?"

"Oh I'm fine, Sister," he told her. "I got married a few years back. Violet Gee, the haberdasher?"

"Oh yes, of course. You've gotten married to her? That's so wonderful, Fred."

He nodded happily. He always was a happy man. Excitable at times. Always into one hairbrained scheme or another. But kindhearted always. "And we adopted my nephew, Reggie. He's got some problems, and when his mum died, he couldn't be on his own and me and Vi took him in. He lives at a school for other young people like him, out in the country, but he comes and visits us for holidays and we try to get up to see him when we can."

"That is so lovely. I'm so glad you have a family and you've been doing so well for yourself. And you're still here at Nonnatus House!"

"Of course, Sister! Can't ever leave the Nonnatans."

"When did the move to this building happen?" she asked.

Fred pursed his lips, thinking for a moment. "Must be almost ten years by now. We had a bomb scare. Construction in the neighborhood, found an old unexploded bomb from the war days. Had to evacuate and detonate. Mostly alright, but our old Nonnatus House, just too much cracking in the foundation. Couldn't take it. Wasn't safe anymore, so we made our way up here. It's nice, this. The sisters seem to like it. And more space for the nurses, too."

"Well, I look forward to seeing it while I'm here."

"Here, let me take your case, Sister. It's a nice day, but we don't need to be standing around outside," he chuckled good-naturedly. Fred took her suitcase and led her up to the front of Nonnatus House. "How long will you be with us?" he asked.

"I have to get back on Monday."

"To the Mother House?"

"No, I've been living in Oxford, working at the hospital there. We have a small Nonnatus House of our own nearby the university."

"That must be nice. It's very pretty country up there. And of course, all those students and professors and things, must be very cultured," he presumed.

"We do have a lot of that. It's incredibly different from Poplar. No better or worse, just different. Though I do find myself missing life here on occasion," she confessed.

Fred gave her one of his best grins. "Well, we're glad to have you back even if its just two days. I'll call for Sister Julienne for you, eh?"

"Thank you, Fred."

She was left in the foyer, gazing around at the dark wood and the little signs of midwife and district nursing life there. The phone in the corridor beside the cubbies for patient files, the chalkboard with the nurses and nuns' names for who was on call. It was strange to see names she did not recognize at all.

"Oh my dear Sister Bernadette!"

Sister Julienne appeared from the hallway beside the stairs and rushed toward her, arms stretched out. The two embraced warmly, and she felt as though she were going to cry. In fact, she did cry. The overwhelming feeling of the journey, the purpose for it, the memories of being back in Poplar, this moment of having Sister Julienne's kind love once again, it was all too much.

"Shh, no tears," Sister Julienne soothed, feeling the shaking sobs beginning. "Fred, would you take Sister Bernadette's things up to her room, please? The one next to Nurse Dyer."

The sound of Fred's heavy steps on the stairs faded, and Sister Julienne took her into the office down the hall. The two of them sat beside one another, and Sister Julienne held her as her tears subsided. "I'm so sorry, Sister," she said between hitched breaths.

"No apology necessary. When Sister Josephine phoned, she said you had some business you needed to discuss with me. I'll admit I was surprised. It has been a very long time," Sister Julienne said.

She nodded. "Too long. But I…" She took a deep breath, knowing that this was all going to come out now. "Do you recall the time just before I was diagnosed with tuberculosis and sent to the sanatorium?"

"You were having trouble," Sister Julienne remembered. "A crisis of faith, I think it was."

She nodded again. "I was not entirely truthful with you, then. I couldn't be, I don't think. I could not be entirely truthful with myself. And when I was cured of my illness and asked not to return to Poplar, I led you and everyone else to believe that I had a renewal of faith and felt the call to be at the Mother House. But that wasn't so," she explained.

"It wasn't?"

"No." She steeled herself for what came next. The confession of a truth she had not until last week allowed herself to accept. "I made the wrong choice. I had no renewal of faith. And I think that I ignored God's true path for me, and because of that, He has abandoned me these last ten years."

"My dear, whatever do you mean?" Sister Julienne asked with concern.

"I fell in love. With a man. I fell in love with a man who loved me in return. And instead of accepting his love and taking the steps to do what I needed to in order to be with him, I ran away. And I know that God has abandoned me for it. I have not felt the true comfort of prayer or the fullness of God's love or anything that once called me to the Church and to be a nun." And in saying those words, a great weight lifted off her shoulders. To admit out loud the dark secret she had harbored for so long was such an enormous relief. Like surfacing from underwater to fill her lungs with air.

"Doctor Turner."

"Yes," she confirmed. There was no use denying it. Surely Sister Julienne had suspicions of such a thing. The way she and Patrick had behaved, the way he had begged for news after she left. Sister Julienne must have known.

"He was the man you fell in love with. And you believe he loved you in return?"

"Oh I know he did. Letter after letter he sent me at the sanatorium made me sure."

"And what did you say in return?"

"Nothing," she said ashamedly. "I left him without a word. I did not answer a single one of his letters. Though I have kept those he sent me all these years."

"You love him still?" There was a look of concern and almost fear in Sister Julienne's eyes as she asked that question.

She nodded. "With an ache that I can barely understand. But I know that I love him. And I know that I have missed him all this time."

Sister Julienne took her hand. "My dear, Doctor Turner no longer lives and works in Poplar. He moved away two years ago, after young Timothy left for university," she said apologetically.

"I know. I saw Timothy last week. He lives in Oxford. And…and as we were having tea, Doctor Turner arrived to visit."

"You saw him?"

"I did. And then he came to see me at the hospital, and then we had lunch together. And I know that the years have gone by and he is so much older and I am so much older, but it…it feels just the same."

Sister Julienne regarded her curiously. "Sister, why have you come to speak to me about this? After so long away?"

"It was here that I made my mistake. It was you who tried to help me then, and I wasn't able to be helped. And I come to ask for your guidance again. Do you think it's possible to right a wrong like mine? After so long on the wrong path, can it be possible to change course and make amends for my mistake?" she asked desperately.

A pensive silence filled Sister Julienne's office as the older nun thought how to respond to such a difficult query.

Hers was a face of quiet beauty. Ten years older, surely. But the lines and spots that marred her skin were those of a person who had laughed and cried and worked hard and turned her face serenely to the sunshine whenever possible. It was the face of the woman she trusted more than any other, and even seeing her again was a comfort in itself.

"I do not think that God has abandoned you. I do not think He ever abandons any of us. But if you do not feel as you once did with the comfort of your faith and the security of your vows, I do not think that is because God has abandoned you. I think that you are right, however, that your path lies elsewhere. It seems to me that you gave Doctor Turner your heart ten years ago and he has kept it. Your heart once lived within the walls of the Church but has not since you gave it to him. The vows we take are for our lives, but they are not a prison sentence. And in falling in love and remaining a nun as you have, I believe that is what your vows have become for you."

Sister Julienne's words struck right in her heart, causing tears to well up in her eyes again. She just nodded in agreement.

"My dear, you have been given a great gift. A second chance with the man you love. That second chance is not evidence of having been abandoned by God. I think that second chance is very much a nudge in the right direction."

The tears fell from her eyes, and Sister Julienne gently wiped them away, handing her a handkerchief when they streamed too quickly.

"Sister Bernadette, I feel very blessed to have been your sister for all these years, even in your absence. For me, I know that I shall remain a nun for the rest of my life. And that thought brings me great comfort. But for you, I think your days as a nun are very numbered now. Perhaps ten years overdue. And that thought brings me comfort as well. To know that you have suffered in our Order and to know that you are going to be happy. Please, my dear, be happy."

She swallowed the lump in her throat and dried her eyes, trying her best to speak. "I can't tell you what this means to me."

"I think I know."

"I did not expect this," she admitted.

Sister Julienne frowned slightly. "What did you expect?"

"That you would tell me to pray and to recommit to my vows."

"Perhaps ten years ago I may have said that. You were young and troubled. But the years have taught you a great deal. I have no doubt that you know your own mind and your own heart. You have not come to this decision lightly."

"No, Sister, I haven't."

"Then I think you have no more need for delay."

"Thank you, Sister Julienne."

"I think that tomorrow we can call the Mother House and discuss arrangements with Mother Mildred. But for tonight, may I make a request of you?"

"Of course, anything," she answered immediately, wanting to give back to Sister Julienne even a fraction of the comfort that had been given to her.

Sister Julienne smiled softly. "Will you join us for compline? I will confess that I have dearly missed your beautiful voice singing with us."

"I would be honored, Sister, thank you."


	9. Chapter 9

_June 21, 1968_

The sky was very gray. Patrick was in a terrible mood and the weather outside reflected it. June should be sunny and fully of warmth and brightness. But despite it being the first day of summer, there was no summery weather to be found. Only an overcast sky and a biting chill to the wind.

He tried to find ways of distracting himself from the bad mood. There were no patients today, as he only saw them on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He tried to organize his home surgery, but there wasn't much that needed doing. His files were a bit out of order, but he had so few of them now that it didn't much matter. Nothing needed restocking, as far as he could tell. The instruments were all properly sterilized already.

There was nothing on television that he was much interested in. He couldn't seem to find anything to keep his attention. No books or medical journals kept him engaged. He obviously did not want to go out for a walk on such a dreary day. Patrick was left at something of a loss.

The reason for his bad mood, of course, was her. He missed her. After ten years of thinking about her only on rare occasions, he was now feeling just as he had right when she left, desperate to see her and speak to her and figure out where he stood and what could be done. Just the day before, he'd gone and poured his heart out to Tim. And Mike, as it turned out. The boys were kind and somewhat helpful and encouraging. But they knew just as well as he did that there was nothing to be done, and Patrick could only wait for her to do something.

Not having absolutely nothing else to do and nothing to take his thoughts away from his current plight, Patrick decided to do what he did last time. He sat down at his desk and took out a few sheets of paper and a good pen and started to write.

_My darling_, he began, for using her name of Sister Bernadette did not feel right, somehow. It was not her identity as a sister that he wanted to focus on. And when he spoke of his feelings to her—even when he thought of his feelings toward her—he did not ever think of her as Sister Bernadette.

_After ten years apart and no word from you at all, having seen you three times in one week has certainly spoiled me. I do not think I realized how fully and deeply I still felt for you after all this time until your presence reminded me. _

Patrick paused, thinking, wondering how much he should say. Oh he did not really think he would ever send this letter. What would he do, send it to Radcliffe Infirmary and address it to Sister Bernadette? Such a thing would be highly irregular. And should she get awkward questions from her superiors about it, Patrick would hate to put her in a bad position. Surely she had enough to contend with without further trouble from him.

Having decided that he would not send the letter, he decided to keep writing. Perhaps putting all his swirling thoughts on the page might keep them from spinning in his mind.

_As strange as it might seem after so long, I still love you as I did then. From the few minutes we have spent together, I know that you are still all the things I fell in love with. I know that you have a fierce kindness and dedication to your patients. I know that you have a softness in your heart that gives you such wonderful empathy to others. And I know that you are still so unspeakably beautiful. Sitting across from you at the lunch table, I was granted the opportunity to gaze at you without interruption. I know that we have both aged over the years—me much more so than you, I think—but I noticed the little lines around your eyes, hidden somewhat by your glasses, and lines around your mouth. And I treasure each and every line that has appeared on your face. Before, when you were so young and fresh and beautiful, you had a purity and innocence about you that was reflected in the impeccable creaminess of your skin. Now, the years have taught you so much. I see it in those lines on your face and perhaps there is some gray in your hair to match it. In fact, I have never seen your hair and I therefore do not know what color it was back then and what color it might be now. I imagine it is soft and beautiful though I could not begin to guess the color._

He paused, realizing he was rambling pointlessly. Though perhaps that was the point of this whole exercise. He read back what he had written and smiled to himself. She was so very beautiful. Then and now.

_I hope that we might spend more time together soon. I want you with a ferocity that frightens me. The need that claws in my chest to hear your voice and see you smile is quite overwhelming at times. I want to know everything about you. I want to learn everything that I never discovered before. And I want to explore all the ways in which you have grown and changed these last ten years. _

Patrick felt the gaping maw in his chest at putting those words down in black and white. That was the heart of it, really. He just wanted to know her. He wanted to talk to hear and listen to her. Forever, really.

_Only yesterday I spoke to Tim and his friend Mike about the precious dreams I once held, all those years ago. I barely restrained myself from telling you in my letters back then. There doesn't seem to be reason to hold back now. I had thought that we might be married, you and I. I wanted you lying beside me in bed each night, sitting with me and with Tim at the table in our flat above my surgery. I wanted to kiss you when I left each day and returned home. I wanted to be beside you in difficult deliveries and work together to bring new lives into the world and protect all those families we were so fortunate to serve, to hand a newborn to his mother and have her say thank you Doctor Turner and thank you Mrs. Turner._

He was letting his fantasies run away with him now, obviously. He was looking back far too much. Patrick knew he could not ever have those things now, not after ten years, not with the way their lives had changed and the way the world had changed around them. He needed to reel things back in.

_But even knowing that those dreams won't ever come true, that we won't be together as Timothy grows up or having children of our own, I find myself still hoping for a future where we could be together. I know I need to do much better now than I did then of respecting the fact that you are a nun. I will confess that I've had trouble thinking of you that way, as you have always been so much more than the habit you wear to me. Even your name, which is a mystery to me still, I don't usually think of as Sister Bernadette. Whatever you are called, whatever you wear, you are always simply yourself. And you are as you have always been the woman I love. _

Patrick was about to sign the bottom, out of habit more than anything else, when a knock sounded at his front door. With a frustrated sighed, he stood up and made his way to the foyer. He'd neglected to keep his leg from getting stiff while he was writing his letter, so his blasted knee was twinging as he walked.

He opened the door with his mind on his knee and was caught quite off guard by the person who had knocked. His jaw dropped and his whole brain froze.

"Hello, Patrick," she greeted softly.

All he could do was stare at her. For she was there, standing there on his doorstep, looking just as he'd seen her just less than a week earlier. Only she was here! At his house!

"You gave me your card with your phone number but it had your address as well. I was going to call, but I wanted to see you, so I decided to come by. Is…is that alright?" she asked after explaining her presence. Patrick hadn't said anything, so she was trying somewhat awkwardly to fill the silence.

"I…yes…" he stammered.

"May I come in?"

He quickly realized that there was a nun standing on his porch and she likely did not want to be left there. "Of course," he said quickly, moving aside to let her in. He closed the door behind her and showed the way to the small sitting room. "Have a seat. Would you…would you like a cup of tea or something?"

"Not at the moment," she replied politely. "I think it might be best if we talked first."

Her words gave him a sense of foreboding. But he waited till she sat on the edge of the sofa and he took a seat in his armchair beside him. "I'm glad you've come," he said, still not knowing quite what else to say. He nearly told her he'd just been writing her a letter, but Patrick realized he did not want her to read that letter until he knew what it was she wanted to talk about.

"I'm sorry I haven't called. I wanted to, but I was away for a few days," she explained.

"Away?"

A small smile appeared on her lovely lips. "I went to Poplar."

"Did you?" Patrick himself smiled at that.

She nodded. "I wanted to speak to Sister Julienne. She was the one I tried and failed to speak to about you all those years ago. But I was too much in denial and far too afraid to ever really say much. And now that I've learned better, I knew it was Sister Julienne I needed to speak with again."

Patrick felt his mouth go dry. "And did you?" he asked. His heart was thundering in his chest. What had she spoken about? What had Sister Julienne said? What had she learned better now that she hadn't then?

"I did," she confirmed. Her fingers were fidgeting in her lap. Patrick noticed for the first time that there were some age spots on the backs of her hands. He had the same all over his own skin and seeing those brown freckles and blemishes on her own skin was strangely comforting.

"And?" he prompted.

"It will take some time," she said hesitantly, "but Sister Julienne helped me get in contact with Mother Mildred yesterday. And I've begun the process to…to leave the Order."

There was a strange sort of ringing in Patrick's ears. "Leave the Order?" he repeated in question.

She nodded. "In about two weeks, I think, I will no longer be a nun."

"You…really?" Such a thing hardly seemed possible.

"Yes, really. Is…is that alright?" she asked nervously.

Alright!? She wanted to know if that was alright!? Patrick practically leapt out of the chair, ignoring the protest against quick movement from his knee, and hurried into this study. He gathered the pages on which he'd poured his heart and soul. Without a single word, he shoved them in her hands.

She looked at him questioningly for a moment, but he just nodded to the pages. She began to read, and he paced back and forth. He couldn't stay still and he certainly couldn't watch her. But though he was not going to send that letter, it was almost as if she had appeared right at that moment just so that he could give it to her. She was leaving the church, she would no longer be a nun, and she had made that decision before he had shared with her all that was in his heart still. Perhaps they'd both hinted at such things at their lunch, but this was different. This was…this was everything.

"Patrick."

He paused, turning toward the sound of her voice. She had stood up, and she was smiling at him. Smiling! She was smiling! His heart beat faster, threatening to beat right out of his chest.

She did not say another word. She had the pages of his letter clutched in one hand, and she walked toward him. With her free hand, she reached up and gently cupped his cheek. Her thumb brushed over his cheekbone and her soft palm slid over the wrinkled and loose skin of his aged face. Her hand slid back to his neck and every so gently pulled him down. Her eyes fluttered closed and Patrick realized what was happening.

And then he kissed her.


	10. Chapter 10

_June 22, 1968_

Yesterday, Tim had to work. He had drawings to accompany a medical journal article about the gallbladder to finish and send off to the publisher by the end of the day. He sat at his desk in the spare bedroom—the bedroom that was Tim's, if anyone ever asked—and did his shading and sketching and labeling like he always did for such projects. When he needed a break, he went out to see to the rabbits. Mike was off at work all day, which was for the best, as it kept Tim from being distracted.

But unfortunately, Tim was distracted nonetheless. His mind was filled with all that his father had told him about Sister Bernadette. It seemed incredible that the two of them might still be in love after all this time. But as far as Tim could tell, they were.

It filled his mind as he tried to shade the cystic duct on his diagram. Dad was head over heels in love with this woman. This nun! She had gone out to lunch with him in public, she had all but told him flat out that she had loved him too, all those years ago. But she was still a nun. And did she love him still, as he loved her? Tim had no idea. For Dad's sake, he certainly hoped she loved him. If ever a man was deserving of being in love, it was Patrick Turner.

All the time Tim spent on that damned gallbladder, he was trying to come up with a plan, some idea of what he could do to help. And by the time he went out to the post office to send his drawings out to the publisher, he'd come up with it.

Perhaps against his better judgment, Tim did not tell Mike what he was planning. He did not mention it as they had dinner together or as they cuddled up in bed that night. But something in Tim knew that this was something he had to do on his own. Mike was the best man Tim had ever known and Mike was the man Tim loved, but this was an issue that involved Tim's father and Tim's childhood and Tim just needed to keep it to himself. Just for now. He did not want to talk about it or be convinced one way or another. He just wanted to do it on his own. And so he did.

As soon as Mike left for work that day, Tim did the chores around the house as quick as he could and then left. He was amazed to see that the dreariness and gray weather of the day before had utterly transformed into bright sunshine. It made Tim anxious as he walked in the growing heat to Radcliffe Infirmary.

Had Dad felt like this when he'd come to the hospital to see Sister Bernadette? Probably been even more of a wreck. Tim would do his best to get through it without causing too much of a fuss.

"Excuse me, do you know where I could find Sister Bernadette?" Tim asked the young woman at the front desk.

The girl frowned. "Do you have a last name I can look up?"

"No, she's a nun," Tim responded somewhat snidely.

"Oh sorry, I'm new here. I don't know all the nuns and nurses yet. Give me just a minute to check the directory."

Tim felt bad for being slightly rude, so he offered, "I think she's a midwife, so maybe check the maternity ward first."

The girl smiled softly in thanks. She flipped through a book and ran her finger down the columns of names. "Here we are! Sister Bernadette works on the third-floor maternity ward. I think she's scheduled on today."

"Thank you," Tim said, nodding politely and making his way to the elevator. It was still odd being in an elevator. As buildings were getting built taller and taller, elevators were getting more and more common. He could count the number of times he'd ridden in an elevator on one hand before he'd come to Oxford. But progress was coming for all of them, it seemed.

The elevator gave an uncomfortable lurch as it took Tim upwards. He gripped tight onto the railing, trying to keep breathing and calm. Everything about this ordeal seemed to be just that—an ordeal. And he still didn't quite know what the hell he was going to say to Sister Bernadette when he saw her. The elevator made a shrill _ding_ and the doors opened for him.

There was quite a bustle of activity going on. Nurses and nuns and doctors hurrying every which way. There were women howling in pain behind the various doors to delivery rooms. That was a sound Tim was quite familiar with. He'd not gone to house calls with Dad much when he was young, but once the maternity home was up and running, Tim had spent a lot of time there after school. He'd help sterilize instruments and other chores in order to earn some pocket money. The sounds of the agony of childbirth were engrained forever in his mind. It used to scare him, but he'd come to recognize that the pain lasted until the baby was born, and then came the sounds of laughter and crying and delight at the new little life being place in its mother's arms. And all the mothers would know it was all worth it.

"Timothy!"

He'd been so caught up in his thoughts that he'd just been standing in the middle of the corridor when Sister Bernadette had found him. He turned to see her smiling but looking very curious at his presence. "Hello, Sister," Tim greeted in return.

"Whatever are you doing here, Timothy?" she asked.

"Actually, I came to see you." He nearly added that he knew he wasn't the first of the Turner men to unexpectedly show up at the hospital to see her, but he refrained for the time being. "Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

Her brow furrowed. "I suppose I could take a break. Let me just check on my ward for a moment."

"Shall I wait here?"

"Yes, please." And with that, she turned and rushed off through a set of double doors.

Tim paced back and forth as he waited. He tried not to be in the way of anyone, keeping himself close to the wall with his hands in his pockets. Strangely, he thought he might look like a nervous father-to-be. He was about the age where that might have been possible. But such a thing wouldn't happen for Tim. Not anytime soon, at least. Or probably ever. But that was a thought for another time and place.

Sister Bernadette returned quickly. "Here, we can sit over here," she offered, gesturing to a bench around the corner in a slightly quieter area. The two of them sat down and the nun turned to him with her shoulders squared. "Now then, what did you want to talk about?"

Tim felt the nervousness well up inside him. Christ, what was he doing!? This was a mortifying ordeal. But he couldn't turn back now. "I…I wanted to talk to you about Dad," he began.

"What about him?" she answered gently.

"Well, he came to see me. He's been really upset and worried since you had lunch together. He told me about it. About coming here to see you and talking and such. And then you were just gone again, and I just…I thought I'd come ask you for him."

Strangely, a smile appeared on her face. "When was the last time you spoke to your father?" she asked.

"Two days ago."

"Ah, I see."

Tim just stared at her questioningly.

Sister Bernadette explained, "I was away for a little while, and that was why I did not call Doctor Turner as I had promised. I did, however, go to see him yesterday."

"Oh," Tim said, feeling quite silly all of a sudden. "Then I guess…never mind."

She laughed softly. "No, it's quite alright. I think it's wonderful how much you care about your father and how close the two of you are even still."

Tim nodded. "We're all each other has."

Her expression flickered for a moment. "Timothy, I don't think your father has kept a secret from you how he felt about me."

"How he still feels," Tim interjected. Perhaps it wasn't his place to say such a thing, but hopefully if she had seen Dad yesterday, he'd already told her that himself.

"Yes," she said with a nod. "He has loved me for a very long time. And such things, I always felt, were not for me to have. Not just as a nun but…well, that's another story for another time, I'm afraid. But it took me a long time to accept that I loved him in return. And my fear kept me from making that known to him. But, well, I'm not afraid anymore. I've lived a long time being less happy than I could have been, and the choices I made all those years ago hurt you and your father as well. And running into you, having tea at your house, seeing your father again, I know it's not too late to make things right."

Tim stared at her in complete shock. "So…what are you saying?"

Sister Bernadette looked at him with clear, beautiful eyes behind her glasses and a smile filled with assurance. She took his hand and held it comfortingly. "I have begun the process of leaving the Order," she explained.

"You're not going to be a nun anymore!?"

"No," she confirmed. And the look on her face was not one of someone who was leaving behind the life they'd known forever. No, the way she looked at him, Tim could see plain as day that she was confident in her choice. Not only that, but she seemed excited about it.

Tim smiled back at her. "So I guess you told Dad already?"

She nodded. "Yesterday. I thought he should be the first to know."

"Yeah," Tim agreed. His mind was spinning at how differently this conversation had gone from how he'd imagined. And really, he'd not known what to say or what she would say, but he just knew he had to try to do something to help Dad. Turns out Sister Bernadette had already done that. Tim felt a little foolish about it now.

Sister Bernadette squeezed his hand, as though she knew how difficult he was finding it to remain grounded at the moment. "I'm glad you came by to see me. I'm glad I could tell you myself. It's about ten years late, I know, but I feel so certain this is what I'm meant to do. And without you, without that talk we had at your kitchen table, I think I might still be lost and confused and just carrying on as I always had."

"You're welcome, I guess." Tim did not know what to say anymore.

"I hope everything will become a bit easier for all of us in the coming weeks. It will be an adjustment for me most of all, but I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of each other."

"I'd like that. And if there's anything I can do to help…"

"You've already been more of a help than I can say, Timothy," she told him sincerely. "But I am sure there will be so much more I'll need as we all figure out what to do. For the time being, though, I do need to go back to work."

Tim had almost forgotten that they were at the hospital and she was technically in the middle of her workday. "Oh right, of course."

They both stood up to bid each other farewell, and Tim, rather impulsively, threw his arms around her in a tight hug. She stiffened in surprise but almost immediately hugged him back. She was small and lithe, and he had grown tall and lanky. As a boy, he had fit right under her chin. Now, she fit under his.

Perhaps it was inappropriate to be a grown man hugging a nun. But she would not be a nun much longer. And she had been something of a mother to him most of his life. And now, she might finally become his mother officially.


	11. Chapter 11

_June 28, 1968_

It had been a whole week since she'd seen him. A week since she had read that letter he'd written for her of his feelings. Oh that beautiful letter! She had been so overwhelmed by his words that she'd not been able to resist just kissing him right then and there. His kiss was such magic, his lips soft against hers. It had not lasted long. Not nearly long enough, really, but under the circumstances, it was far more than she should have allowed. But after she forced herself to pull back, she'd asked if she could keep the letter. And she had read it over and over and over every day since.

Thankfully, she'd been able to call him on the phone a few times since she saw him. Working at the hospital was quite a fulltime position, and though she was in the process of leaving the Order, she was still technically a nun. She still had duties to perform at Nonnatus House. But twice during the lunch hour at the hospital and once just before dinner, she had been able to ring him and hear his voice.

They could not speak too openly, as there were always people about and she was afraid to be overheard. But Patrick was not similarly constrained. He told her he loved her, each time. And all she could say was, "Me too," which was enough to get the point across. But she wanted more. Oh she wanted so much more!

Finally, she had a day off from her duties. She filled out some more paperwork that had arrived from Mother Mildred and spoken to Sister Josephine about having her things from her prior life sent to her from storage in Chichester. And as soon as she could manage, she hurried from Nonnatus House and made her way across town to Patrick's little house.

It was a nice house, she thought. She'd not seen much of it, only the front room where they'd sat and talked that day. When he'd given her the letter and she'd kissed him. But the front garden was pretty. Perhaps a bit overgrown, but still pretty. There was a plaque beside the front door denoting that Doctor Turner still had a small practice, so presumably he had an office and a small surgery somewhere in the house, along with a kitchen and bedroom and bathroom. She wasn't sure if there was anything else, though perhaps she could ask for a tour today when she visited.

Unlike last time, Patrick was expecting her today. She'd rung him yesterday to tell him she'd finally have the day off and would it be alright if she came to see him? He had been so eager to say yes, so eager to see her again. He called her "my darling" which was the most remarkably wonderful thing to hear. Hardly anyone called her Sister Bernadette anymore, which was a comfort. And soon, no one would call her that ever again. She couldn't wait.

But it did make her think, as she walked to Patrick's, that she needed to prepare—quite quickly—to never be Sister Bernadette ever again. She would need to figure out where she would live and she would need to get a job so she could have money to buy the things she needed. Food and clothes and pay rent and such. There was some money coming to her, everything she'd had to her name when she'd joined the Order all those years ago. And, of course, on an even more basic level, she would need to remember her own name.

It had been so long since she had thought of herself with that name. So long since anyone had said it aloud. Twenty-five years, she'd been a nun. Over half her life. Twenty years in Aberdeen as a sad, lonely girl. Two years at the mother house in Chichester, ten years in Poplar. And then she'd met Patrick. And the eleven years since she'd met him had somehow been longer than the thirty-two that came before.

She shook herself as she got to Patrick's street. There was plenty to worry about later. For now, she just wanted to see the man she loved.

He must have been waiting by the window for her because he opened the door for her when she was halfway up the porch step. "Hello, my darling," he greeted happily.

Her beaming smile must have matched his. She hurried into the safety of his house, and he shut the door behind her. She turned to him. "Hello, Patrick." And then, because they were alone and because she could, she reached up to his face, just as she'd done the week before, and he leaned down to meet her waiting lips.

Her whole being seemed to melt and combust at the same time. Her heart raced and her stomach had butterflies and her knees went weak. Patrick had one hand on her back and one on her cheek. He pulled her close, holding her tight against him. The hand on her face slid back and suddenly he pulled away. "Sorry," he murmured, breathing rather heavily.

She felt like her face was on fire. She had to blink herself back to reality. "Why are you sorry?"

"I shouldn't…I mean…"

"What do you mean, Patrick?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "We should probably wait, shouldn't we? I just…"

"What?"

"I lost myself kissing you and then my hand touched your wimple," he explained.

A sudden flash of anger ripped through her. "Fine," she snapped. With a quick motion she pulled the wimple from her head. Her cap still covered her hair, so she reached behind her and untied it. The pins that held her hair in place beneath it were deftly pulled out so her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. And she felt so free, in that moment. In another time, possibly even a month ago, the idea of taking her hair down anywhere outside the bathroom when she washed it would had shocked her to her core. And having anyone—especially a man—see her hair was unthinkable! But this wasn't just anyone. This wasn't just a man. This was Patrick. And she loved him and he loved her, and she wanted, more than anything in the world, for him to know her as herself.

Patrick stared at her. His eyes were wide and his jaw dropped. And for a moment she was horrified at what he might be thinking. But then he spoke. "You…you're blonde."

She could not quite stifle her giggle, combing her fingers through her hair that was, yes, still somehow blonde. Dark blonde. Generously honey colored. There was a bit of gray coming in now, but still blonde.

He took a step back towards her, gently brushing her hair behind her ear and running his own fingers through it. "It brings out your eyes so beautifully," he said softly.

Though he had just complimented her eyes, she could not help but flutter them closed as she indulged in the feeling of him touching her hair. "Patrick," she breathed.

She did not realize what was happening, with her eyes closed, but all of a sudden he was kissing her again. This time with much more passion. His lips moved fervently against hers. His hand was tangled in her hair and anchoring her face to his. She gasped as she felt his tongue trace the seam of her lips, and she opened her mouth to welcome him. She was about to collapse, but Patrick held her and kept her upright.

Eventually, though, he did pull away again. "Darling, can you stand on your own, do you think?"

She scrambled away from him, wobbly but still standing. "Yes, sorry," she replied.

"Don't apologize," he said, smiling. His face was flushed and happy, his eyes sparkling. "I just can't hold you up like that for too long. My knee…" He trailed off, his face falling into a frown.

"Well, let's sit, shall we?" she suggested, leading them both to the sofa. She watched as Patrick gingerly sat, wincing in pain. He rubbed his knee once he was seated. Boldly, she let her hands join his to massage away the ache. "What happened to your knee, Patrick?" she asked.

"Old age, mostly," he told her sadly. "It was an old war injury that never gave me a moment's trouble till about three years ago. I know it's arthritis setting in, faster there than anywhere else on me because of the old injury. I can't put too much pressure on it or let it get too stiff, but it's not too much trouble."

"Is there anything you can do for the pain?" she asked with concern.

He smiled, placing his hand on hers, still atop his knee. "The massage helps. As does a hot bath. But I'm alright for now."

Satisfied that he was no longer in pain, she leaned in to kiss him once again. He was an addiction to her. Once she'd had a taste, she could not seem to stop. She wanted more, more, more, as much of him as she could have. She wanted to feel his touch on her as much as she wanted to explore him.

Her tongue delved into his mouth. Her hands moved from his face to his hair. Her glasses were being pressed somewhat uncomfortably against her face, but she could not bear to stop. The angle of sitting side by side on the sofa as they were was a bit uncomfortable, however, and she had to adjust. But she would not break their kiss if she could help it.

Slowly, she held onto his shoulders and raised herself up on her knees on the sofa beside him. Their kisses were passionate and wanting, and she could hardly breathe as they both moaned into each other's mouths. She shifted herself so that she straddled his lap, each of her knees on either side of his hips and her habit bunched up between them. She settled herself down, and Patrick wrapped his arms around her waist.

His mouth left hers and she greedily gasped the air. His kisses moved down her jaw to her neck, and she whimpered at the feeling of his lips on her pulsepoint, just below her ear. Her hands gripped harder on his shoulders and she rocked herself against him, following the urges and the electric feelings sparking through her body at his touch.

Patrick groaned against her skin in response. He reached up to try to move her collar aside, to reveal more of her skin to his hungry mouth, but his poor hands were trembling. In another desperate move, she herself practically ripped the collar off her. And, for good measure, she fumbled for a half-second with the cord tied around her waist before throwing it and her scapular off. There were far too many layers, too much fabric, too many barriers hiding her from Patrick. She wanted no more of any of it. She wanted him, only him.

He moved to the other side of her neck, leaving a wet trail all over her flushed skin. His mouth became slightly more insistent, as did her rocking movements on her lap. One of his hands moved to her leg, traveling up her thigh and slipping underneath her vestment and the thin cotton slip beneath it. The stockings she wore were thick and unattractive, but his fingertips soon found the tops of them and touched her bare skin. "Oh Patrick!" she whined, all but begging for him.

"My darling, my love," he chanted, muffled into her skin. He lifted his head only briefly before reclaiming her lips, swallowing the rest of her moans.

Her whole body was on fire with want. She'd not felt this kind of want and need in such a long time. She'd not felt like a woman, a being full of desire who could be desired in return, not in many, many years. At one time she had been bold and passionate. As a girl, she had yearned for so much. And as a nun, she had left all of those traits behind. But here and now, with Patrick, she felt reborn to the woman she'd left behind, the woman who had begged her for years to be set free once more.

But even so, even feeling all these miraculous, beautiful things with Patrick, a small part of her knew why that woman she'd once been had been suppressed. She knew what had come of her bold and passionate nature. She knew why she couldn't do this. And she had to pull away. "Patrick, wait," she said, her voice hoarse.

He searched her face, his eyes a bit wild and his chest heaving. His hand resurfaced from under her skirt and he held both his hands back, as though afraid to touch her. He was probably waiting for her to clamber off him, but she did not want to, not just yet.

Everything about him was so dear, so kind, so wonderful. And she loved him so much, she felt she would burst. But she couldn't. Not yet. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in the crook of his neck. "Oh Patrick," she whispered.

His arms wrapped around her as he hugged her back. "I love you," he murmured.

She smiled. "I love you, too," she said. She'd not gotten to say that yet. Not out loud. Not those precise words. But she pulled out of his embrace and slid off his lap to sit beside him once again.

Various parts of her habit were strewn about, making her blush at her own actions. She'd wanted to do it. She felt so much better without the weight of all of that. But it was probably too much too soon.

She looked back at Patrick to find him watching her warily. But she took his hand and brought it to her lips. "I'm sorry to stop things, but I think, before anything goes any further, we should talk."

"Yes, of course. I am sorry, I should have…"

But she shook her head. "No, I'm glad you didn't stop me. I'd have been quite cross if you'd tried. But there are some things that you should know about me…about how and why I came to be a nun. Because so much of it affects things between us now. And you deserve to know."

"Alright," he agreed. His thumb caressed the back of her hand as he still held it.

"First, I think I should tell you that I am forty-two years old. I was born in Aberdeen, Scotland. I was the only child of Paul and Aileen Mannion. And my name is Shelagh."


	12. Chapter 12

_June 28, 1968_

Shelagh. Her name was Shelagh. Patrick's mind seemed to freeze, trying to contemplate the reality of this. Her name was Shelagh.

He stared at her in awe, sitting beside him on the sofa. "Shelagh," he breathed, cupping her cheek in his hand, feeling the silky strands of her beautiful blonde hair. He noticed for the first time that there was a twinge of gray at her temples. It was comforting somehow, that she was starting to gray. His head was almost entirely gray now. He was older than her, of course. Nearly seventeen years older, it turned out, if she was forty-two and he was turning sixty in a few months' time. It put them on somewhat more even footing now, them both going gray.

She looked at him curiously. "What did you think my name was?" she asked, a small smile playing on her lovely lips. She was teasing him, slightly. And he loved it. He loved that she was so at ease with him here, was so comfortable in asking him of his thoughts.

"I had no idea, honestly. I didn't want to press you for your name until you left the Order and you had to tell me, but I think I've told you in my letters that you've never really been Sister Bernadette to me. In my mind, you were always just…you," he told her.

"I hope Shelagh isn't a disappointment."

"Not at all," he insisted. "It's a beautiful name. It fits you, I think. Particularly now, like this."

"Oh?"

He caressed her hair again, because he could, because it thrilled him to do so. "Shelagh, my darling Shelagh, blonde and beautiful."

She gave a soft laugh, clearly pleased with his besotted ramblings.

It was in Patrick's mind to pull her back onto his lap and keep kissing her, this time whispering her own true name onto her skin, but she had wanted to talk. And besides, they had already gone much further than he had ever anticipated being able to before she was well and truly free of her vows. It would be madness—and frankly disrespectful—to press for any more from her. Instead, he shifted where he sat, ensuring his knee didn't get stiff, and turned towards her. "What did you want to talk about, darling? Other than your name and age and parents, I mean."

Her face fell slightly. "Well, I suppose it is mostly about my parents. Why…why I joined the Order. My journey wasn't like so many of my sisters. They all, at some point, felt a call. I thought I had. I really did. At the time, there didn't seem to be any other choice. But I realized that I didn't choose to follow God's plan for me. I wasn't called by Him to become a nun. I think what I did was run away from difficult things I could not face and hid away in a convent. I did it all those years ago and I did it again to hide from you."

Patrick did not like being reminded of that time, those ten years they'd spent apart because of her fear and his overeagerness. "What were you hiding from, Shelagh? What did you run away from?" he asked. He reached out to take her fidgeting hands in his, hoping to calm her with his touch.

She looked down at their hands and gave a soft smile. He hoped it was because he'd called her by her name. They would both need to get used to it, but he really did think it suited her well. But she looked back up at him, fear and shame filling her expression. "I was hiding from my guilt."

He wanted to ask what she meant, but he felt as though it would not be right, just then, to press her along. He would have to suppress all the manic energy that still plagued him as an old man and be patient for her to explain.

Shelagh averted her eyes again as he waited for her. She closed them for a moment, taking a deep, strengthening breath. When she looked back at him, she looked much stronger than before. "My mother died when I was a child. It's one of the things that drew me to Timothy when I met him. I was just about that age when my mother died. I was left all alone with my father. Though he wasn't as good as you were. My father loved me, of course, and took good care of me. But he largely left me alone. He wasn't a very happy man. He worked in a bank and was always terribly busy doing whatever it is that bankers do. I grew up rather lonely as a result."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Patrick interjected, giving her hand a squeeze.

She smiled slightly at that. "I wasn't entirely pitiful. I liked to read and I liked to sing. I was very active in our church because there wasn't much else to do for a girl my age. I did well in school and I spent a lot of time in the church hall with some of the neighborhood children whose parents also worked. And that's how I met Brody Wilson."

That was the first part of the story that really took Patrick by surprise. He did not anticipate her story having anything to do with a boy. But given the way she had kissed him and moved on his lap like that, Patrick should have guessed he wasn't the first man she'd ever kissed. No one was that good without at least a bit of practice. Obviously Shelagh's practice was many years stale, but she obviously knew what she was doing.

"Brody lived down the road from us. His parents weren't as well off as we were, though I didn't care at all. He always felt bad about it, I think. But I insisted on going round to his house rather than having him over at mine because I didn't want to be in my father's way. Brody's parents both worked long hours and they didn't have a housekeeper, so we weren't bothered either. It didn't really make much difference when we were children, but as I'm sure you know, children grow up."

Patrick thought back to Tim's teenaged years. He had grown tall and lanky like his dad, which Patrick was quite sorry about. It had taken a long time for him to feel comfortable in his own skin, and Tim had the same problems. Too tall, too thin, limbs too long. As a result, both the Turner men were not very popular with the ladies. Patrick had done alright, figuring out that kindness and friendliness and respect went a long way to make up for what he lacked in physical attractiveness. One girl had told him that he had a lovely smile, and Patrick endeavored from that day forward to smile as much as he could around women. It charmed them and gave him the confidence he needed to win them over. Marianne had told him she had fallen in love with his smile after their first date.

Tim, on the other hand, never seemed to find his way. He'd had a couple of dates with girls when he was a teenager, as far as Patrick knew, but never a steady girlfriend. He'd never seemed too bothered, however. Patrick tried to ask his son about girls on occasion, but Tim would blush frightfully and mumble something and then change the subject. After a while, Patrick stopped asking. He'd worried about his son being alone in the world, but with Mike as a roommate, Tim seemed to be doing alright.

"Children do grow up. And boys and girls certainly grow up," Patrick answered her knowingly.

She blushed slightly but continued, "I fell madly in love with Brody. It was like a light switched on in my head one day. He'd been my friend for years and then I suddenly realized I loved him. And I…well, I'll confess to you that when we were about fifteen and walking home from church, I took his hand."

"Very bold of you," he teased lightly.

"I was a bold girl," Shelagh told him.

"You still are."

She smiled at that. "We started going steady when we were sixteen. Spent all our time together. Went to the cinema and to the pub and out dancing."

"Did you neck in the theater when the lights went low?"

Her blush brightened. "On many occasions."

Patrick laughed, delighting in this education of the bold girl Shelagh Mannion had once been.

She continued her story. "Brody left school at sixteen, but I continued as long as I could. I wanted to go to university if I could. My father supported it. He was going to pay for me to go to the University of Aberdeen to study music. Brody supported it, too. He said he liked that I was clever. He got a job in the factory with his father and I kept going to school. On my eighteenth birthday, Brody took the day off and asked me to meet him at his parents' house after I got done with school. And when I did, he asked me to marry him."

Shelagh paused then, swallowing hard. Obviously she had not married this Brody Wilson, as her life would have been much different if she had.

"I said yes," she said, her voice catching slightly. "I thought it was obvious, that Brody and I would be married. That was what people did, isn't it?"

"Of course," Patrick replied, hoping to soothe her increasing agitation at telling this tale.

"And I…well, the house was empty and we were engaged to be married and…we…"

She faltered and Patrick supplied a somewhat cheeky response, "You did what our patients do to cause need for a midwife."

Thankfully she did laugh a bit, though the sound caught in her throat. Patrick suddenly worried that something terrible had happened, that Brody Wilson had done something to harm Shelagh, that what should have been a beautiful moment of love between to people promised to each other had spiraled into something traumatic and tragic.

"What happened, Shelagh?" he asked softly, begging her to tell him.

Tears gathered in her eyes and started to trickle down her cheeks. "We stayed in his bed all afternoon and into the evening. We were…we were happy. But eventually it was getting late and I was expected home for supper. I was late as it was. I got dressed and Brody kissed me goodbye and I hurried up the street to go home. He offered to go with me, but it wasn't far and it wouldn't have been right if he weren't home when his parents got off of work." She sniffed back a threatening sob. "I should have had him go with me."

Patrick could not bear it any longer. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. "Shh, it's alright, Shelagh. It's all in the past now. It's alright."

But she shook her head against his chest. "It wasn't alright, Patrick! If I weren't busy sinning, I would have been home in time. My father had a heart attack and he was all alone and the housekeeper found him dead in his study when he didn't come to supper. And I should have been there! I should have known, I should have called for help!" she cried.

Patrick's heart broke for her. That was it. That was the guilt. Her first sexual experience, with a boy she loved and was engaged to marry had been tainted by the most horrific case of poor timing.

She cried for a few minutes longer before she could get ahold of herself and sit up. Patrick fished a handkerchief out of his pocket for her. She accepted it gratefully. "I had to arrange for my father's funeral. I had a lot of help from the minister at the church and the sisters there. Brody tried to help, but I wouldn't let him. I knew it was my fault for letting him…distract me. And I told him the very next day that I couldn't marry him."

"Shelagh, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't his fault either. Surely you know that now?"

"I was so young, Patrick! I didn't know what to think. I only knew that I had not earned the happy life I'd looked forward to. I obviously didn't go to university. And it took me almost a year to settle things for my father's estate and to sell the house and such, and that's when I devoted myself to the Order. I wanted to become a midwife to help bring life into the world as penance for the way my sins had caused my father's death. That was my justification at the time," she explained.

"Oh my darling, you suffered so much and for so long." He took her hand and squeezed it tight. "You punished yourself and surely punished Brody for a horrible accident of timing."

"Yes, I know," she said. "And then I did the same thing to you all those years later. I was so afraid of the horrible things that might happen if I let you love me and if I let myself love you."

He cupped her cheek again, his thumb wiping away the last of her tears. "But I hope you aren't afraid anymore?"

She shook her head. "Not anymore. Not of you. Of us. I realized, after I saw you again at Timothy's house, that I had nothing left to lose anymore. And more than that, I've lost so much already. And I don't want to ever run away ever again. So much of my life has passed me by because I was too afraid to want any happiness for myself. And I promise that I am not afraid anymore."

And then, because it was the only thing he felt he could possibly do, Patrick leaned in and kissed her. "I love you, Shelagh," he murmured against her lips. And he could feel her smile as she kissed him back.


	13. Chapter 13

_July 9, 1968_

Tim paced back and forth in the kitchen. The pie was in the oven, the potatoes were boiling for the mash, the wine was open and breathing, and Mike was sitting at the table, careful not to disturb the place settings, and watching Tim quietly panic.

"It's gonna be fine," he reminded Tim.

"Is it? I mean…what do we do?" Tim asked back anxiously.

Mike stood up and took Tim in his arms, kissing him softly. "We do what we always do with your dad. And now he's got a girlfriend. That's all there is to it. We know her and we like her, and your dad's really happy, right? So what is there to worry about?"

Tim knew he was right. Everything was going to be fine. But he'd not seen Sister Bernadette since she left the Order. She wasn't a nun anymore. He'd never seen her as a proper person. Nuns aren't really people, are they? He'd not really given it much thought before very recently. Sister Bernadette had always been so special but she was still just a nun. It wasn't until he took the time to really think about it, about the idea that Dad had fallen in love with her as a woman who just happened to be a nun. But obviously he had. And he was probably going to marry her quite soon. That was the whole point of this, right? Her leaving the Order so that they could be free to marry? Well, Dad hadn't said as much yet, but it was pretty clear that they were heading in that direction. Maybe that's why Dad wanted to have dinner all together. Maybe they were going to announce it tonight.

"Tim," Mike said softly, interrupting his reverie. He stroked Tim's hair soothingly. "What's worrying you?"

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "I know it's just the same person wearing different clothes. But she and my dad are together now and she's not a nun and…I dunno, it's going to be different."

"Different can be good sometimes. You're the one who's always said you wished your dad could be happier. And have you ever heard him so happy as the last few times you've talked to him on the telephone?" Mike pointed out.

"I know you're right. It's just…I dunno."

A knock came at the front door, followed by the creak of it opening; Dad never waited to be let in, nor did they expect him to. "Hello!" he called, announcing his presence.

Mike gave Tim one last kiss and told him, "It's going to be fine."

Tim gave himself a nod and followed Mike out to the foyer to greet their guests.

Dad came to give Tim and Mike big hugs immediately. "Hello, boys. Thanks for having us. Of course, you've met Shelagh Mannion."

He stepped aside to reveal her standing there, looking small and nervous but elegant and beautiful. She wore a bright green dress with white polka dots. It was more form fitting than a habit could have ever been. It showed off the feminine shape of her body and while it had a high neckline, it was sleeveless and the pleated skirt reached only to just above her knees. Tim had never seen her bare arms or her bare legs. Though it was a very hot summer day so her attire made sense.

But what was most jarring to see was her hair. Blonde with slight touches of gray at the temples, curled and pinned back from her face, tumbling over her bare shoulders. She still wore her same glasses but she was…good lord, she was wearing makeup! Pink lipstick and something on her eyelids and her eyelashes were dark and full.

"It's nice to see you again, Timothy," she said, allowing him a moment to gape at her before she spoke. "Thank you for having us over for dinner."

Mike saved them from the awkward moment. He pushed Tim aside and shook her hand. "Hi, Miss Mannion. It's nice to have you." He then gave Tim a kick in the shin.

"I…hi," was all he could say.

"I'm sure this comes as a bit of a shock," she acknowledged kindly. "It's been quite strange for me to get used to, I'll admit. Things are very different from when I was fixing my hair and doing makeup as a teenager."

Dad laughed lightly and put his arm around her. "It's been an adjustment for all of us, but for the best, I think."

She looked up at him and smiled. "Definitely," she agreed.

Mike, ever the best in difficult situations, led them all into the kitchen. "Well, dinner's almost ready. We can start in on the wine and have a toast, eh?"

They all followed him and took their seats. Mike poured the wine and Tim went to check the potatoes. Cooking at least gave him something to do.

"Is there anything I can help with Timothy?" she asked.

"Not right now, thanks," he replied. "Just going to get the mash done so it's ready when the pie comes out of the oven."

"Did Mike make the pie?" Dad asked.

"I did the pastry, Tim did the filling," Mike replied. Tim didn't even have to look at him to know he was grinning. It was a special thing they liked to do together, make pies. Mike loved pastry and baking of all kinds. Tim wasn't quite as skilled, but he liked to experiment with flavors and things, and Dad knew that well.

Dad explained, "Tim and Mike make the best pies you've ever eaten in your life. I'm a terrible cook, but these boys are incredible. Things you've never thought of, they put into a pie and make it the most delicious thing."

"Oh how exciting," she said happily. "I'm afraid I'm only barely passable as a cook. I shall have to get tips from you two, now that I'll be cooking on my own every day."

"So what do we have to look forward to today?" Dad asked.

Tim was busy with the potatoes, so Mike answered, "I put a bit of rosemary in the pastry, so that'll be a nice flavor. Inside we've got lamb and pheasant with peas, carrots, rutabaga, and spiced with fennel and a little bit of mint."

"My, that sounds incredible!" she praised.

"Tim's a genius," Mike told her.

As he added butter to the mash, Tim smiled. He knew he was a good cook and he knew his family—Dad and Mike—appreciated it, but having Mike be so proud like that meant everything to him. If he could have, he would have gone over and kissed Mike right then and there.

Soon enough, the pie came out of the oven and everything was brought over to the table. The four of them dug in to the meal. It was just pie and mash, but it felt special. Pies like that took a lot of effort, so Tim and Mike only really made them for events like this. And Dad bringing his girlfriend over for dinner was certainly an event. Gosh, what an odd thing. Dad bringing his girlfriend over. And technically that's what this was. But the fact that the girlfriend had, until about a week earlier, been a nun and one who Timothy had adored as a child, that complicated things quite a bit. But things had gone alright so far, thankfully. Now that they were eating and drinking, Tim had calmed down and was trying to enjoy himself.

"This is easily the best pie I've ever eaten, Timothy. You really are a genius!" she told him.

"Thanks," he replied with a happy smile. "I'm really glad you like it."

"We had lamb all the time when I was a girl. I haven't gotten to have it very often since. This is a real treat, thank you."

"Where in Scotland are you from, Miss Mannion?" Mike asked.

"Oh call me Shelagh, please. I still need to get used to my name again," she said.

Mike nodded. "Alright, then. Shelagh."

"In answer to your question, I grew up in Aberdeen and I lived there until I joined the Order. My mother died when I was young and my father was a banker. He passed away shortly before I became a nun," she told them.

Tim noticed how Dad took her hand on the table and gave it a small squeeze. "I didn't know that," he said to her, looking back at her face.

"Yes," she replied. "I think that's one of the reasons we got on so well when you were a boy in Poplar. I was about that age when I lost my mother as well."

The two shared a soft smile.

Mike kept the conversation moving, as usual. "How are things for you, Shelagh? You've got a pretty dress and you seem to be adjusting to the hair and makeup quite well," he complimented.

Shelagh laughed, "Well, yes, that took a bit of practice and it was very strange shopping for clothes for the first time in twenty-five years, but it's all been lovely. Life is obviously much more complicated when I'm not duty-bound in every minute of my day. I am going to apply to work at the hospital as a regular nurse and midwife there, since I don't know what I'd do otherwise, and the rest of the time, I must say I'm enjoying my freedom." She looked over to Dad and they grinned at each other.

"Have you found a flat nearby?" Mike asked.

"No, actually, I…" She trailed off in a strangely nervous way.

Dad answered, "Actually, Shelagh's moved in with me."

Tim's fork clattered down on the plate. "She _what_!?"

Poor Shelagh's face went bright red. Dad defended, "It's 1968, Tim. I hardly think we'll be arrested for living together."

"But you're not married!"

"Neither are most of the couples we're friends with, Tim. They all live together," Mike pointed out quietly.

That did not make Tim feel better. "Yeah, but they're young! Things are different now for young people. You two are…"

"We're not ancient!" Dad protested. "And she's staying in the spare bedroom, if that makes you feel better. Not that it's any of your business where she sleeps."

Surprisingly, that did not make him feel better. If anything, it made things even stranger. "So you're just housemates?"

"Well no, we're not just housemates," Dad corrected.

"Are you even engaged?" Tim demanded.

"We've discussed it, but no, we are not engaged yet. Shelagh hasn't started working regularly yet. She's got to start over a whole new life and buy things she's never needed before. Her money won't last forever and I didn't think it made sense for her to worry about paying rent somewhere. She was going to move in eventually, and, as you pointed out, we're not young. So why wait?" Dad's argument made sense. But Tim was still uneasy about the whole thing.

But Shelagh interjected before Tim could say anything else. "What bothers you about me living with your father and sleeping in the spare room, Timothy?" she asked softly.

There was something about her voice that instantly calmed him. It must be some innate remnant of when he was a child and she would be his companion and his comfort when he was sad and upset. But as soon as she spoke, he felt slightly more at ease. And he tried to figure out the answer to her question. "I guess I assumed that you'd be…traditional. I know you're not a nun anymore, but jumping right to living with a man you're not even engaged to seems like a big leap."

"I am not as conservative as my life as a nun would lead most people to believe, I think," Shelagh told him. "I gave up a lot of myself to be a nun. I was obedient. But that is not my life any longer. I am still who I've always been, but I am free now to think for myself and to make my own choices in a way I never ever could before. I think you know, Timothy, that I did a lot of damage to all of us when I was too afraid to make my choice, when I was obedient instead of brave. And I don't want to be like that any longer. I love your father with all my heart and I don't ever want to be apart from him. So when he invited me to have the spare room in his house, I accepted. I was not pressured to live with a man out of wedlock and I was not worried about the implications. As Patrick said, it is 1968 and things are different now than they would have been if we'd been able to start our life together back in Poplar. I want to live with the man I love. But I do sleep in the spare room because we are not married and I was a nun until a week ago, and adjusting to everything takes time. Your father has been enormously patient with me, and he has accepted my decisions, and I hope you can as well."

Tim was very much put in his place at that. He knew, more than most, the importance of living with the man you love even when you perhaps shouldn't. Thank goodness that he and Mike could pass it off as just being housemates and friends. And, in a way, the fact that so many couples were living together before they were married was a gift to Shelagh and Dad. They were allowed the same happiness that Tim and Mike were able to have in the privacy of their own house. Tim could not begrudge them that. "Thank you for explaining. I'm sorry I got upset," he mumbled. He picked his fork back up and continued to eat his dinner.

Under the table, Mike put a comforting hand on his leg, which felt rather nice. Dad and Shelagh shared a look, and they went back to eating as well.

Dad took a sip of wine and asked, "Who chose the wine? It's very nice."

"I did," Mike replied. "I found it in the shop a while back. I hadn't heard of it, but I think it goes really well with the pie."

And everything settled back into place. And they had a happy meal together as a family.


	14. Chapter 14

_July 9, 1968_

It had been a good evening, all in all. Tim had been a bit out of sorts, but Shelagh had been expecting that. She could only imagine what it must be like for him, having just his dad all these years and now suddenly his dad is in love and living with a woman. Particularly a woman who was just barely ten days free of being a nun. Oh it was complicated, and she felt for the lad.

"Tim and Mike certainly do a nice supper," she commented as she and Patrick arrived home.

"Yes, I'm afraid I eat best when I go over to theirs. Part of why I'm over there so often," Patrick replied with a little laugh.

Shelagh smiled at that. That was not the main reason Patrick went over to see his son so often and they both knew it. "Well, we can't be imposing on them all the time. Not both of us, at any rate," she reasoned. "I shall have to practice my cooking and hopefully the boys can come over here every so often."

Patrick kissed her temple and smiled. "That's a wonderful idea, darling."

They'd spent the last week they'd been living together learning more and more about each other and trying to build a home and a life together. It was wonderful, it really was. But Shelagh had been working very hard to make it that way. She had moved in her things that were returned to her from storage at the Mother House—photographs of her family, books that had been special to her father, a few items of clothing, and small pieces of jewelry that had been her mother's. And, of course, one hundred pounds that had been retained as her property after she'd donated the rest of her family inheritance to the Order upon taking her vows. That money had been spent rather quickly, once she knew she'd not need to worry about paying rent, she had used the money to buy an entire wardrobe of clothes—as she'd not had her own clothes in over twenty years—and going to the salon for a haircut and learning what makeup and hair products she would need. That had all been quite fun and overwhelming in equal measure. She had a lot to learn, but it was an enjoyable education.

It had been Patrick's idea that she move in with him, something that she had balked at, at first, but she thought it was a wonderful idea. The practicality of it made sense, her not having to worry about paying rent or finding a flat, and this way they could spend all of their time together starting their life. It was true, what they'd said to Tim, that they had talked about getting married. Moving in beforehand just skipped a step in the adjustment process. For how much more difficult would it be for Shelagh, to be out of the Order and learning to be on her own only to be married shortly thereafter and have a whole other adjustment to make? No, this was certainly better.

Patrick had also been the one to offer her the guest bedroom for her as long as she wanted. As much as she loved him and enjoyed the physical side of their relationship thus far, she was still irrationally reticent. She'd told Patrick about what had happened with Brody, how tragedy was so indelibly tied with sex in her mind, and they both understood that it would take some time for her to be ready to work through all of that. The fact that she and Patrick were not married did, again, flit in and out of her mind, but ultimately was not a reason to keep her sleeping in the guest room. She and Patrick loved each other and would be together for the rest of their lives. Married eventually, but their future was very much understood by them both.

That night, they returned home from Tim and Mike's quite late. They'd all had a very good time together, once the initial discomfort of the situation had been explained and had passed. After dinner, they'd had tea and continued talking and laughing. Shelagh had insisted on helping with the washing up, so they did not leave until everything was all clean and put away.

Patrick was closing and locking up the house, as it was so late, just as he did every night before bed. Shelagh took a moment to look in the refrigerator and pantry to give her an idea of what they had in so that she'd be prepared to make breakfast the next morning. Patrick was obviously able to fend for himself after being on his own all these years, but Shelagh had always been a woman who like to have a purpose. She was not working again yet, and she did want to practice her cooking. It was an enjoyable thing to wake up each morning, put on something pretty, fix her hair, and make breakfast for Patrick. At first, he would come out of his bedroom wearing his pajamas and dressing gown with his hair all a mess. She found that quite endearing. But upon seeing that she was dressed and ready, he had felt odd about not being equally presentable. He now had a shower and shave and got dressed before he joined her in the kitchen.

"I didn't think we'd be out so late, but I suppose it's bedtime," Patrick said somewhat sadly when she came to the sitting room from the kitchen.

They had a little tradition of having a cuddle on the sofa before they went to their respective bedrooms. Sometimes, but not all the time, their cuddle turned into a rather spirited snogging session. Thankfully they stopped themselves before going too far, though Shelagh was always disappointed when they did have to pull apart. She did not want him to stop, even though she knew they had to. The thought that there was still a barrier between them was rather sad. They had come so far and yet there was still so far to go. But she knew she had not been ready and if she had let Patrick continue or told him not to stop, she might have regretted it, and that would be even worse.

Tonight, however, it was far too late for their usual cuddle. Even though there was no real timetable for the next day, being tired in the morning would not be enjoyable for either of them. And so Shelagh reluctantly agreed that it was indeed bedtime.

The two of them went down the hallway together, past the bathroom to the two bedrooms across from each other. Shelagh's room was on the left, Patrick's on the right. They turned toward each other and shared a soft smile. He leaned down—slightly less than before, now that she wore higher heeled shoes—and kissed her softly. Shelagh could not help put her arms around his neck and hold her to him, and keeping the kiss going, deepening it. Patrick pulled her close as their mouths moved together, and Shelagh felt her whole body tingle with delight. But, as always, they had to pull away. Patrick kissed her one last time before he straightened up. He sighed happily.

"Goodnight, Shelagh."

"Goodnight, Patrick," she replied.

They each turned and went into their respective rooms to get ready for bed. Shelagh took off her dress and slip and underthings before pulling her nightgown over her head. That had been a fun shopping trip, getting herself some pretty things to wear to bed. Eventually Patrick would see her in all these things, and she hoped he would like them. She was over forty, well past her prime of youthful, supple beauty, but Shelagh had never felt more beautiful in all her life. And buying things with a little bit of lace and in pretty colors made her so happy. Tonight, she put on a thin white cotton nightgown that reached to her knees and had pink lace around the trim. It was a warm night in July, so she knew anything more than this might cause her to overheat in the night.

She put on her dressing gown to go to the bathroom down the hall so she could wash her face and scrub her teeth before going back to her room to get into bed. Sometimes she liked to read a book before turning out the light and going to sleep, but she wasn't really in the mood for it tonight. She just pulled the covers over her and switched off the lamp and closed her eyes.

Her mind, however, would not quiet. She kept thinking about all the things Tim had said, all the thoughts that he'd spoken that had been on her mind throughout all of this. She was living with Patrick as his housemate, essentially. They were not married and not even engaged. Those things did not really bother her. But she was in love with a man who was asleep just across the hall. Surely that was odd. Their situation on the whole was quite odd, but that was the part that she did think about. Never mind being engaged or married. They were living together without actually living together. Without sharing a bed, they were just housemates, as Tim said. It felt very wrong, all of a sudden.

Shelagh sat up in bed and made a very bold decision. She made the decision without giving it a second thought. Perhaps she was getting used to make her own choices, feeling confident and brave in this newfound freedom. Whatever it was, it compelled her to do exactly what she wanted without talking herself out of it.

Her bare feet padded on the carpeted floor as she crossed the bedroom to the door and she went out into the hall. Shelagh took one deep breath to keep her bravery and softly knocked on Patrick's door. There was no light coming from inside, and he didn't answer. That didn't stop her. She opened the door slowly.

"Patrick?" she whispered.

An enormous shadowy lump in the bed shifted. "Shelagh? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, I…" Boldly, she closed the door behind her. "Can I sleep in here with you?" she asked.

"Oh!" he said in surprise. But he recovered quickly and shifted to one side of the bed, pulling back the covers on the other. "Yes, of course, darling."

It was difficult to navigate an unfamiliar room in the dark, but she was glad he did not turn on the light. She made her way to the side of the bed he'd indicated for her and got in. Patrick settled down on his side of the bed, turned toward her as she made herself comfortable. Her foot brushed his leg and she noticed he wore silk pajamas. She had not noticed that when he'd first come out for breakfast in his pajamas. It was almost funny to her, that he wore silk pajamas. She'd not expected such a thing from him.

"What brought this on?" he asked.

"I just wanted to see what it was like," she answered. "I didn't like that Tim called us housemates. And I didn't like it because he was right. I don't mind that we aren't married or engaged yet. I know we will be, that we'll always be together. But having my own bedroom doesn't feel right."

"I just didn't want to rush you," he explained.

"I know. And I'm glad you didn't. But if it's alright with you, I think this is where I belong."

Patrick scooted over and pulled her into his arms, kissing her gently. His legs tangled with hers and the silky fabric of his pajamas against her skin was an absolutely beautiful feeling. She shivered and held him closer as his lips brushed against hers. "Yes," he murmured. "This is exactly where you belong."


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: M-rating for this chapter**

_July 10, 1968_

Patrick woke slowly. That was usual for him. He'd never been much of a morning person. His mind would ease from dreams into consciousness and he would lie there for a little while, letting himself adjust to his surroundings before even opening his eyes. He took stock of his position in bed, where he was lying, whether he was hot or cold or somewhere in between, if his hair had inevitably fallen in his face, moving his leg so his knee wouldn't be too stiff, deciding how long he could keep lying in bed before he desperately had to get up for a wee.

This particular morning, that regular inventory was interrupted by a shift of weight on the bed and a soft little sigh. Patrick's eyes snapped open and he was faced with a swath of blonde hair on the pillow beside him. And that was when he remembered that Shelagh had gotten into bed with him the night before. And he smiled.

They'd fallen asleep in each other's arms. She had tucked herself beneath his chin. Her fingers played with the buttons on his pajama shirt and her breaths tickled his neck slightly. Their legs tangled together lazily as his foot brushed up against her bare calf. He actually did not know what she'd worn to bed, as they'd not turned on the lights when she'd come in to join him. He could see now that her nightgown was white with pink lace trim. Very pretty. Very like Shelagh to choose.

Obviously during the night they'd each rolled over and way from each other. Patrick knew he had a tendency to toss and turn. That was mostly thanks to his arthritic knee. But he'd ended up just where he'd started, it seemed, on his side and facing towards Shelagh. She had rolled to her other side and was now facing away from him. The bedsheets were pulled up over her shoulder and he could only barely see the curve of her neck and the top of her nightgown underneath her hair.

Oh she had such lovely hair! It still boggled the mind sometimes, to think of it. He'd have never imagined that a person could fall in love with another without ever having seen their hair. It was a silly thing and really not important in the long run, but that honey-blonde hair of hers was just so incredibly beautiful. And now he could hardly think of her without it. For though he had loved her when covered by a wimple and bonnet, he now thought that her hair was his favorite of her features.

With a smile, Patrick scooted closer to her in bed. The sun was coming through the curtains, giving a bit of dim light for him to be able to see her, but he could tell it was not so early that they had to get up just yet. Surely enough time for a bit of a cuddle. He snaked left arm over her resting body and placed a gentle hand on her stomach to pull their bodies closer together. She felt so small and delicate in his arms, so beautiful and precious. The floral perfumed smell of her hair tickled his nose as he pressed his face into the silky tresses and kissed the shell of her ear through the strands.

"Good morning, my love," he whispered.

Shelagh hummed and smiled. "Oh what a nice way to wake up."

"I'm glad you're happy to be here still."

She put one of her hands on top of his where it rested on her under the covers and turned her head back to look at him as best she could. "Very happy. I take it I didn't disturb your sleep by being here?"

"Not at all. I slept very well and I hope you did, too," he replied.

Shelagh nodded. "Very well." She tilted her head slightly to kiss him gently. "It's wonderful to wake up in bed with you. I've never woken up in bed with a man before, and I must say, I've never wanted to do such a thing before you."

Patrick smiled back at her. Sometimes being reminded that he was the only man she'd had a romantic relationship in her adult life was a bit disconcerting. He was very special, he knew, that she had given up her whole life for them to now finally be together, and he would have done anything to make that so. But though he'd loved Shelagh for years and years, the fact still remained that he'd had a relatively normal experience courting women in his youth, and he'd fallen in love before with his dear wife. They'd had a life and a child together, and he had held her in his arms when she died. It was so long ago now, a whole different life, but the fact remained that he'd had that experience of romance and marriage and raising a child, and Shelagh had never had any of it. She had lost her virginity to a boy who had proposed marriage to her—a fact that actually comforted him, if he was honest; being her very first would have been far too much pressure—but her lack of experience did sometimes give him pause. He did not want her to ever feel as though she were lacking, and he did not ever want to push her in any way. And now, having her in his bed was quite a risky thing. Still, Patrick wanted to indulge in the luxury of this beautiful moment.

Her hand gently traced over his, up his fingers and the back of his hand to the coarse hair on his forearm. In response, he pulled her closer, her back flush against his chest. His body curled around her as her bum settled right into the curve of his hips. Patrick began softly kissing her neck and brushing her hair out of his way. Shelagh sighed happily in response.

But the more he kissed her, nipped at her soft skin and soothed with his tongue, the more she seemed to enjoy it. She rocked against him, arching her body to more contact with his. It had been this way that first time she'd taken off her wimple and straddled his lap on the sofa, the way her body reacted to his efforts. She drove him absolutely wild. The way she was rubbing her body against him was going to cause a physical reaction to his arousal quite soon, and with just his thin silk pajama bottoms, that was going to be very awkward very quickly.

And yet he could not seem to stop. The little gasps that escaped her and the way she moaned his name spurred him onward. His hand slid up her body to cup her breast through the nightgown. She whimpered when his palm brushed the fabric over her tightly furled nipple.

But then Shelagh stopped him. "Patrick," she said, slightly breathlessly. She took his hand and removed it from her body and moved away from him.

"God, I'm sorry, Shelagh," he said, rolling away from him. He could have cursed himself, ruining their nice moment by going too far. He should have had better control than this, particularly at his age! Patrick felt almost sick to his stomach.

Shelagh sat up in bed but did not run out of the room as he expected. She turned toward him sidling up to where he lay on his back. Patrick shut his eyes in shame. He felt her shift slightly on the bed, but he remained where he was, not wanting to ruin anything further. "Please don't apologize, Patrick," she chided. "I didn't want you to stop. I only needed to readjust."

He did not know what she meant by that, so he tentatively opened his eyes. And then he understood. Shelagh had sat up and pulled her pretty nightgown up over her head and tossed it aside. And she now lay half on top of him in bed with her bare breasts pressed to his chest. Any feeling of arousal he'd lost from the slight interruption and misunderstanding was back now with the expanse of her exposed skin on display.

She had her hands just above his thundering heart and rested her chin on top of them. "Is this alright?" she whispered.

"Is it?" he asked in response. He did not quite know what to say. She was…god, she was so beautiful and he wanted her so much he could hardly see straight. Probably a side effect of the speed at which the blood from his brain had rushed to his groin. "Shelagh, we don't have to…" he warned. If she did not want him to make love to her, he needed her to tell him now. His resolve was weakening by the second.

Shelagh smiled. "I love you, Patrick," she said. "And I think now is the perfect time for you to make love to me. If you would like to."

"Yes," he choked. "I…very much."

She laughed, but the lovely sound was cut off by his lips on hers. Like a drowning man finding air to breathe, Patrick kissed Shelagh with so much want and need that it almost scared him. He loved her so much, it was overwhelming. She had been lost to him for so long, and they had endured so much to reach this moment. He loved her and she loved him, and he wanted her with a ferocity he'd never before known.

"Patrick," she moaned softly as his hands mapped the curves of her bare body and his lips moved to trail more ardent kisses down her neck.

"Shelagh, my darling Shelagh," he murmured into her skin.

She reached between them, beneath where her own body lay atop him and began to undress him with trembling hands, undoing each button on his pajamas. The suspense was more than he could take. Patrick rolled them over so that he could sit up and throw off the shirt.

Her blue eyes, unobstructed by her glasses in this rare early morning moment, raked over his bare torso. Patrick knew he was not much to look at, particularly not at his age. His muscles had long gone soft, his belly had grown, and his skin was starting to hang loosely over his wiry frame. But she looked at him with such sparkling appreciation and even arousal that Patrick felt at least ten years younger.

When she'd finished staring at him, her eyes flicked up to his face. He was smiling. Patrick leaned in to kiss her again. When he pulled back again, he was delighted to see her lips swollen from his kisses. Her pale, beautiful neck was red and blotchy from his earlier attentions. Patrick slid one large hand down her neck, pausing to gently massage her breast, and down to her flat stomach and to her thigh. Shelagh shifted and spread her legs for him. She pulled him back down to kiss her, whispering his name onto his lips.

His hand remained on her thigh, dipping between her legs but not yet touching her where her knickers still covered her otherwise naked body. Now, more than ever in his life, Patrick needed to be patient. There was still time to turn back, though it would likely kill him to stop now.

Shelagh writhed beneath his touch, silently begging him. But he would not trust her body to speak for her, not yet. "Are you sure?" he asked, pausing all ministrations to be certain.

She nodded. And for good measure, she shifted herself and pulled her own knickers off, throwing them off the bed to join the growing pile of their nightclothes on the floor.

Patrick grinned. He certainly could not deny her. She was hot and wet already as he traced her folds with his fingers. He himself whimpered at that. The way they'd kissed, the way he'd touched her, she had already become so aroused. She wanted him. Never in his life did he believe that she would ever truly want him, particularly like this.

He let his hand lazily slid his fingers between her legs and exploring her most sensitive places. He kissed her again and trailed his kisses down to her breasts. Small and dotted with pale freckles in a few places. Her skin was starting to show her age, becoming thin and delicate. Patrick did not mind. If she were too youthful, he'd have feel terribly uncomfortable with their entire relationship. His hair was entirely gray and on the verge of going white. The wrinkles all over his body were growing deeper by the day. And now he knew that his Shelagh had dusky pink nipples and freckles on the sides of her breasts and she shuddered and cried out his name when he swirled his tongue over them.

As his teeth grazed over one pert nipple, he slipped one finger inside her. Shelagh whimpered and dug her fingernails into his scalp in the most delicious way. Patrick took his time before adding a second finger to curl inside her. The thrust faster and deeper, finding the rhythm that would please her most. When he felt her flutter around his hand, he pulled away from her so he could watch as she came for him the first time. She gasped and trembled and moaned his name, and Patrick had never seen anything more erotically beautiful in all his life.

Shelagh fell back on the bed to catch her breath. Patrick slowed his hand and stilled, watching her blink her eyes and look at him. She grinned and gave a breathy laugh.

"You are so beautiful, Shelagh. I could have never guessed how beautiful you'd be, full of passion like that," he told her.

"That was incredible," she said breathily. "Thank you."

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "Thank you," he replied.

Then, a slightly naughty smirk curled over her lips. Patrick had never dreamed she could look so cheeky, though he should have expected this boldness, this fallen nun of his. Shelagh gazed up at him with dark eyes and reached out to push his pajama bottoms off his hips.

Patrick had to get off her to take off the rest of his things. His erection sprang forth, and he climbed back into bed with her. Shelagh spread her legs to take him into the cradle of her thighs, bending her knees to welcome him between them. Patrick watched her, looking for any sign of hesitation or nervousness. Finding none, he lined himself up at her dripping entrance and slowly, slowly pressed inside her. She moaned and arched her back, adjusting to his length and saving the feeling of him filling her, just as he savored the feeling of being nestled inside her like this. He did not know if she was acting on instinct or memory from her experiences before, but Patrick did not worry. They were together now, the two of them finally fulfilling this last act of tearing down those barriers that had remained between them.

He made love to her at a steady pace, wanting to memorize every moment of being with Shelagh this first time. The first of many, many times for the rest of their lives. Every movement of her body, every line and curve. Every little sound that escaped her while she rocked in time to his thrusts. And all the while, his eyes stayed locked onto hers. He was lost in the dark pupils of her bright blue eyes. The sunlight growing in the room made her gaze sparkling and full of magic.

It was that glorious sight that he knew he would never forget as long as he lived. As they reached their climax together, they continued to stare into each other's eyes. All the love and heartache that had led them to this place, to this moment, seemed to make the moment an eternity.

"I love you," he whispered, trying to keep himself suspended above her as long as he could.

She reached up to brush his hair off his sweaty face. "I love you," she replied.

His arms shook and faltered. Shelagh held him close, her arms and legs wrapped around his body and keeping him with her, and Patrick felt his thundering heart echo in his ears as his face pressed into her beautiful golden hair.


	16. Chapter 16

_July 31, 1968_

It had taken a few weeks for things to settle, but it all turned normal much quicker than they might have all expected. Perhaps it was their history and this way they could all sort of pick up from where they left off. But they'd gotten into a new routine that soon felt very comfortable.

On Thursdays, Tim and Mike hosted Patrick and Shelagh at their house for dinner. Shelagh had started working as a nurse and midwife again at Radcliffe, now as Nurse Mannion instead of Sister Bernadette, so she would often come over to see Tim right after she finished her shift. She now had a locker for her things at the hospital, so she could change out of her uniform there and wear her own clothes out and about.

Tim was amazed and delighted to see that Shelagh somehow had adopted a wonderful dress sense in the last three weeks. She seemed to have an endless array of pretty dresses and patterned slacks and brightly colored blouses and cardigans to wear with her adorable shoes. Tim usually had no reason to pay any attention to women's clothing, but he was quite impressed with Shelagh's wardrobe.

On Sundays, Tim and Mike would go over to see Patrick and Shelagh at the house they now shared. Shelagh was getting the hang of cooking and had made some lovely things. Tim was happy to help her however he could, and she often asked his advice with her recipes.

Yes, it was all comfortable and wonderful. Their strange family had grown. Tim had Mike to fall asleep with and wake up with each and every day. And he now had a father and almost a mother who loved each other so much it was almost embarrassing sometimes. But Tim really didn't mind. Whenever Dad would sneak a kiss with Shelagh or put his arms around her or whatever else, Tim just watched with a beaming smile. They were so happy together, and it was incredible to see.

But somewhere deep down, Tim found a tiny part of himself becoming just the slightest bit jealous. Not of Dad or of Shelagh, of course. He really was happy for them. He was gladder than he could say that they'd found their way back together and they were creating this life for themselves and the love they shared. For so very long, they'd not been allowed to be together. She had been a nun, and it wasn't right that she should love any man or that any man should love her. Nuns were not permitted to have their own lives in that regard. But now Shelagh had left that life and she and Dad were together and in love and would probably be married within the year.

And that was just it. They were allowed to be together now. Yes, it was a bit of a scandal that Doctor Turner had led a nun astray. But once she had left the Order, she was free to marry him. The only impediment to their happiness had been removed. Tim did not have that luxury. There was absolutely nothing that could be done for him and Mike. They had been extremely careful since the moment they'd figured out their feelings and what they meant. They'd had to be. It had been less than a year since the Sexual Offences Act had been passed by Parliament which had decriminalized 'homosexual acts' when consensual and between men over the age of twenty-one. So now, at least, Tim and Mike's relationship was not illegal. It was not, however, widely accepted. And other than a small handful of their very liberal friends an even smaller number of other gay friends they had, no one knew the true nature of the relationship. Tim and Mike were housemates and friends to everyone else. Including Dad.

One of the reasons Mike had left his family's farm, despite being very happy with the prospect of being a farmer all his life, was because he had known from the time he was about fourteen that he was gay. And he knew that his family, being strongly religious and even more strongly conservative, would not accept him. His mother, he'd told Tim, had always tried to introduce him to local girls, and she surely would have pressured him into a marriage he could not have accepted. And if he had, he was sure that whatever woman ended up his wife would lead a sad life with a husband who could not love her as a husband should and recoiled at the very idea of the acts that would have given her children. So he had worked hard to be able to get admittance into Oxford and pay for it himself and other than occasional letters, turned his back on that little farming community he'd come from.

Tim had an altogether different problem. He and Dad had always been so very close. And when he was young, he'd always been very awkward around girls. He'd made friends with some of them, but he never really understood what the other boys were talking about when it came to girls. It almost seemed like an elaborate joke to him. How could they look at the girls their age and have any feeling whatsoever about their breasts? It never made any sense to Tim. What also never made sense was when he had shared a locker room with the other boys and why they never seemed distracted by any of it. He did not know how many times one of the other boys had shouted at him to get his attention and teased him for daydreaming when his gaze was fixated on the developing bicep on someone's arm or their toned abdominals. Everyone else was able to change in and out of their sports kit without problem. At the time, Tim had thought that maybe they'd had friends or brothers they'd spent time with in a way Tim never had. It was not until many years later that Tim understood what it really meant.

Mike had not been the first man Tim had been with. That fact had come to a surprise to Mike, actually. Tim didn't blame him. He'd been so unbearably awkward around Mike at first, no wonder he thought that Tim didn't know what he was doing. No, Tim had first experimented with a boy in his dormitory his first year at Oxford. Hormones of boys that age are quite powerful, they'd found. And, to put it bluntly, they'd shagged like rabbits. But it did not take long for Tim and Billy both to discover that they didn't actually like each other when either of them had his pants on. Things ended rather quickly thereafter. Mike was different, though. He'd lived in a different dormitory, and Tim had met him in one of his classes during second term that first year. And for Tim, it was love at first sight. They'd learned that they could not have been more different in their backgrounds but they were practically identical in their perspectives on the world. They got along famously as friends, even though Tim could barely string a sentence together in Mike's presence. They'd talked and drank beer all night at a party about two months after they met, and Mike gave that beautiful, perfect smile and leaned in and kissed him. After which Tim promptly threw up from the alcohol.

When Mike helped Tim back to his dormitory, they'd continued to talk and discovered that they both shared the same sensibility towards each other. And Mike had asked if he and Tim could see each other more, in private. The rest was history. They'd fallen deeply in love and gotten a flat together for their second and third years at Oxford and bought their house after graduation. And thanks to the forbidden nature of the love they shared—though finally no longer criminal—this was all they could ever have. Dad and Shelagh had found their way to be together, to be able to marry and hold hands and kiss on a public street if they wanted to. And that was something Tim and Mike would never have.

The sound of the doorbell rang on a Wednesday afternoon interrupted Tim's brooding while he was supposed to be working. He put down his pencil and went to answer it.

To his surprise, Shelagh was at the door. "Hello, Timothy," she greeted. "Sorry to come by unannounced, but I was hoping you might have a bit of time to help me with some recipes." She held up a cookbook that had about a dozen scraps of paper sticking out of it, presumably used to mark the pages she wanted to save.

Tim laughed. "Sure, come on in."

Shelagh embraced him and kissed his cheek as she entered his house. She went straight into the kitchen as Tim closed the door behind them. "I do hope I'm not interrupting your work," she said.

He shook his head. "These drawings aren't due until next week. And I've been working on them for long enough today anyway."

"Can I see them?" she asked.

Tim smiled. Shelagh was a very curious sort of person. She was genuinely interested in so many things and liked to ask a lot of questions. It also helped that she was a brilliant nurse and midwife, so she had a better understanding of medical science than almost anyone. "Everything is sitting on the desk in my room," he told her. "Go on and have a look. I'm going to start the kettle and give the buns some hay." He really should have done that about an hour ago, but he'd lost track of time.

Shelagh went down the hall to Tim's room and he filled the kettle, switching it on before he went outside to see to the rabbits. They were hopping around adorably.

"Hey you all," he greeted cheerfully. The friendlier and braver ones liked to come over and say hello whenever Tim came by. There were a few small ones who were a bit more nervous. They would scamper away from the invasion.

Tim spoke softly to the little animals, scattering fresh hay in their pen and leaning down to give the friendly ones a few pets and scratches on their little heads. They were such sweet little things and Tim absolutely adored them. He and Mike were never going to have children, even if they'd wanted them, so this was the best they could do. They had their little bunny babies, and that suited them just fine.

When Tim went back inside, he found that Shelagh had not returned. He turned off the kettle and set the tea to steep while going to see what she was doing in the bedroom. Probably still looking at his drawings. He was working on a rather odd set at the moment. There was a researcher in London doing some very strange things with the pancreas. Not a very well-known organ, the pancreas. Tim had to work harder on that than on most things, what with the odd shape and texture. And the relation to the spleen and gallbladder was always tricky to get right. Very few people ever got to see the drawings in progress, so she might have been interested.

But Shelagh was not looking at the drawings when he came in. She was sitting on the end of the bed across from his work desk. And she had a very strange expression on her face. She looked all at once sad and worried and confused.

"Everything alright?" he asked with concern.

She took a deep breath. That was odd. "Timothy, do you and Mike sleep in the same bed together?"

Tim thought he might be having a heart attack.


	17. Chapter 17

_July 31, 1968_

"What…why?" Tim stammered.

Shelagh felt so uncomfortable. Her heart was pounding and her stomach was in knots. It was a horribly impertinent personal question, but as soon as she saw, something just clicked. It had not ever been in her mind to wonder about Tim and Mike but suddenly it all made sense.

Tim and Mike lived in a house together, which was not unusual at all for boys their age. Men, really. But the way they lived together, cooking meals and raising rabbits and being so in tune with each other, Shelagh thought it was so obvious now that she thought of it.

"The bed," she explained nervously. "You said this is your room, and your desk and drawings are here, but no one's slept in this bed in a long time. Possibly ever."

"How do you know?" he asked. His face was pale and frightened, and Shelagh wanted to comfort him but she did not quite know how yet.

"When I moved into your father's house and he showed me to the guest room, the bed looked just like this one. He told me it hadn't been touched since it was first made up when he moved in. The sheets were stiff and there was a layer of dust on the duvet. Just like here," she told him.

Tim looked as though he was about to cry. He slunk down in the chair at his desk beside his drawings. "Shelagh…" he whispered.

She noticed that he had not answered her question, but she would not force him to say it. "I don't know how many people know, but I know Patrick doesn't. I think he'd have told me if he did."

"Dad doesn't know," Tim said, harshly.

"Don't you think he should?" she offered gently.

He looked up at her sharply. "Yes, sure, let me just tell my dad that I'm a poofter!" he snarled.

"I don't think that kind of language is necessary," she admonished softly. "But I don't think that anyone who loves you is going to be upset to know the truth about you and Mike."

Tim looked up at her curiously. "You're not upset I'm going to hell for my sins?"

"I think I'm the last person to have anything to say about the sin of loving someone that the Church tells you not to. And the same is true for your father."

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he tried to blink them away. "That's what Mike said," he replied. His voice cracked.

"Oh Tim." Shelagh stood up and went to where he sat and took him in her arms, holding him close. When he sat, he was nearly as tall as she was while standing. Certainly not the little boy she'd held a decade ago. "I know it's not been very long since I've been a part of your life again, but I do want to be. I'm sure you didn't plan on telling me this way, with me finding out like this, but I think it's important to be honest about who we are. I learned that lesson very recently, unfortunately."

Tim wrapped his lanky arms around her and hugged her tight. He was shaking with sobs, burying his face in her dress. "I'm sorry."

"Shh, no, don't be sorry, sweetheart," Shelagh comforted. She stroked his hair and leaned down to give him a gentle kiss on the top of his head. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Timothy. Everything's going to be alright."

He calmed down and pulled away a minute or so later, wiping his eyes and scrubbing his face with his hands. Shelagh brushed his hair from his face again.

"Why don't we have that cup of tea now, hmm? I think we've got a bit more to talk about," she suggested.

Tim nodded, sniffing back any lingering tears.

Shelagh held his hand and led him back down the hall to the kitchen. It all felt very much like when he was a boy, now. Only everything was so very different. She was no longer a nun, and he was no longer a boy. She was not Sister Bernadette comforting a grieving child. No, now she was Shelagh helping a man come to terms with the truth of his life.

In one hand she had her recipe books with all its marked pages. Perhaps after they talked, it would be helpful for them to go back to that, the purpose for her visit. Some normalcy, something to get his mind off his troubles. At least, she hoped they could.

Tim let go of her hand to make the tea. The kettle was ready, though thankfully they'd not left it for too long. For all the drama they'd just experienced, they had not actually been in the bedroom for long. He was quiet as he steeped the tea and got the mugs out for them both. Shelagh took her usual place at the kitchen table and waited quietly, watching him as he did the task he'd done a million times before.

Eventually, he came to sit with her and put one of the mugs in front of her. She thanked him quietly and waited for him to begin. It was not the same, of course, and Shelagh knew it was not the same, but she felt this situation was quite close to what she had experienced in going to Sister Julienne and finally confessing her feelings for Patrick and her need to leave the Order because of it. Tim's situation was not really like that, but it was the best thing Shelagh had to compare it to. And because of that, because she learned so much from Sister Julienne's warmth and kindness and serene understanding and patience, Shelagh waited for Tim to speak first.

"Mike and I are in love," he finally confessed. He spoke quietly, keeping his eyes focused on his tea while he said the words before looking to Shelagh for her reaction.

Shelagh smiled. Perhaps that surprised Timothy. But she smiled. She couldn't _not _smile.

"Why are you smiling?" he asked. It was almost a demand, but Shelagh did not begrudge him for it.

"It's been very recent for me, but I've come to know what a beautiful gift it is to love and be loved in return," she told him. And it was true. It had been only about a month since she and Patrick had been together properly, but it was years and years in the making.

"But it's different for you," Tim remarked somewhat bitterly. "You just had to stop being a nun and you could be with Dad and it wasn't illegal and you can get married."

Shelagh positively ached for Tim. He was entirely right. It wasn't fair that she and Patrick should have suffered and then been granted the ability to make it right. Tim and Mike did not have that luxury. Not by a long shot. "I know that you know that things haven't been easy for your father and me, but I wish there were a solution for you like there was for us. Really, I do."

"Thanks," he said softly. But his face was hard. He took another sip of his tea.

"Timothy, why haven't you told your father?"

He did not answer right away. Perhaps he was searching for a way to explain. Perhaps he did not quite know the answer at all. But he did finally say, "I didn't want to disappoint him."

"Oh you could never disappoint him," Shelagh countered.

Tim shook his head. "I'll never get married or have children. I'm all he has, Shelagh, and he'll never get to have a wedding for me and he'll never have grandchildren. Isn't that what every parent wants? And I can't give him any of that. I thought I could try, but I can't."

She did not press him further on that point. The very thought of him trying to deny himself, to force himself to find some poor girl to marry just so that he could give Patrick a wedding to celebrate and force himself to have children with her just so that Patrick could be a grandfather, that was unthinkable. She could not fathom how difficult this all must have been for Tim. "But to keep a secret like that from him must have been so hard," she sympathized.

He nodded. "He and I are so close and it's the only thing I've ever not told him."

"A rather big thing to not tell him," she said.

"Yeah." Tim took another sip of tea. "And I feel bad for Mike, too. Dad thinks he's just my housemate. He's nice to him and treats him well, but…Mike's more than just my housemate."

Tim's words from so many weeks ago rang in her ears, when he had accused her of just being Patrick's housemate because they slept in separate beds. Had this been what he'd been alluding to? Because Mike and Tim were decidedly not just housemates. Shelagh was rather certain that they were just as in love and committed to each other as she and Patrick were. "You need to tell him, Timothy," Shelagh said. "Mike deserves to be treated like a proper member of the family as he is, and your father deserves to know the truth."

"But what will he say? Shelagh, I can't just tell him," Tim replied worriedly.

"You can," she assured him. Though really, she did not know. How would Patrick react? He was a progressive sort of person, she thought. Understanding of those around him and not judgmental of those who were different. At least that was how Shelagh had always seen him. But homosexuality was not an issue they'd encountered together. She knew the view of the Church on such things, of course, though that was a view she herself did not share; since leaving the Order, Shelagh had found herself free to make up her own mind unhindered by doctrine that was dictated to her. And here and now, the young man she loved like her own child had confessed to her that he was in love with another young man who loved him in return. And whatever ideas she had about procreation and laws of nature and sacraments of marriage were irrelevant in the fact of Timothy's life and her deep desire for his happiness. Mike was a nice lad, and if they were in love and they were happy, Shelagh wanted only the best for them. In her heart of hearts, she had to believe that Patrick would feel the same. He was the man she loved, and she had to believe that he would agree. But what if he didn't? There was every chance that this was not something he would tolerate. Men could be like that. Particularly a man with only one son.

"Shelagh?"

She was interrupted from her thoughts by Tim's voice. "Yes?"

"Are you…I mean, is this all…alright? With you, I mean?"

Shelagh reached over and took his hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. She told him precisely what she'd just had in her mind a moment before. "I only want you to be happy, Timothy. I know I'm not your mother and I know I'm not married to your father yet, but I love you very much as if you were my very own, and all I want is for you to be safe and happy and loved. And are you?"

"Yes," he answered, smiling for the first time since this all began.

"Then that's all that matters," she assured him.

"Thanks," Tim said softly. He took his hand back from her and reached over to where her recipe book was sitting. "Why don't we go over some of these?"

"Oh yes, thank you. You're a much better cook than I am, and I really want to learn," she told him earnestly.

And then they settled in to their task. Shelagh brought a notebook to take down everything Tim said in answer to her questions. He was patient with her, warm and intelligent and making little jokes here and there as he patiently went through each and every little detail she asked him about.

A bit later, Mike came home for the day. Tim told Shelagh softly that he'd talk to Mike about what they'd discussed earlier. Shelagh only nodded approvingly. She now very much wanted to get to know Mike better, knowing now that he was as important to Tim as Patrick was to her.

But all of that would come in time, she knew. Everything was still so new for her. And even though she had lost out on ten years with Patrick and Timothy, she was here now. She would always be a part of their lives from now on. And it would take some time to find their way to becoming a family and learning everything about each other, but it would come. She had no doubt that it would all come in time. Somehow, they would find their way.


	18. Chapter 18

_August 1, 1968_

Patrick was unsure what was going on. Shelagh had been strangely quiet all day. She'd gone to see Tim the day before so he could help her with some of the recipes she had questions about. She had been happy upon returning, telling him all about the things she learned about cooking from his son. But she'd been quiet otherwise. When she wasn't paying attention, he would watch her and notice something almost nervous about her that he had not seen since her days as a nun. They'd gone to bed that night with a soft kiss and a little cuddle and she hadn't said anything. He hoped, now after they'd finally come together as a proper couple, that she would tell him if something was bothering her.

But there was no use worrying about it now. They were heading to Tim's for dinner, just as they did every Thursday. Shelagh seemed even quieter now than before, but now whenever he looked at her, she gave him an encouraging smile. Patrick wasn't sure why.

"You look very pretty this evening," he said as they walked through town. Tim's house wasn't too far, about a ten minute walk, so they never bothered with the car. And in the summertime, it was especially nice to be outside.

Shelagh beamed proudly. "Thank you. I thought this would be a nice occasion for this dress."

It was a very pretty dress. It was shorter than others he'd seen her wear, but that was the fashion nowadays. And Shelagh had incredible legs to show off. The dress was sleeveless and had a green and pink and white mod pattern. Looking at Shelagh now, it was almost impossible to believe she'd ever been a nun. "It's very seasonal," he complimented. "You always wear such bright colors."

Her face suddenly turned grave. "Should I not?"

"No," he said quickly, disabusing her of the wrong idea. "I think you look like you've stepped out of a fashion magazine, and I think you look beautiful and happy, and happy is the most important part."

Shelagh rested her head on his arm, giving him a loving squeeze. "I am happy, Patrick."

He gently kissed the top of her hair, careful not to disturb the pretty style she'd coifed. "I'm glad."

But then Shelagh went quiet again, and Patrick could not understand what could be wrong.

Patrick put it out of his head, however, when they got to Tim's. He knocked twice and opened the door—it was well-established between them that neither he nor Tim waited to be let into the other's house—and called out, "Hello, boys!"

Mike immediately appeared out of the kitchen and in the foyer. "Hi Patrick, can I pour you a drink?" he offered. "Shelagh, Tim wants your help in the kitchen."

Shelagh and Mike shared a look that Patrick found very odd indeed. But she went off to the kitchen and Patrick joined Mike by the bar cart.

"How about a scotch?" Mike asked, holding up the bottle of single malt that Patrick had given the boys a while ago.

"Sure," Patrick agreed. Everyone was acting very strangely. It was almost as thought Mike were keeping him busy while Tim and Shelagh did something else altogether.

Mike brought him a glass of scotch and the two of them sat on the sofa, just like they'd done a hundred times before in the evenings when Patrick would come over. "So how's your practice been going?" Mike asked pleasantly after they clinked their glasses with a muttered 'cheers.'

"Same as always," Patrick replied. "No patients today, but yesterday I had a man come in about his arthritis and I did a house call for a pregnant woman on bedrest. She's getting very close to term, and if she wants to give birth at home, I might have Shelagh come and assist me."

"She's still a midwife, isn't she?"

"Yes, and one of the best I've ever seen. And I don't just say that because I love her. Ever since I met her, she's always been the most skilled midwife I've ever had the pleasure of working with," he answered proudly.

Before Mike could respond with more than just a smile, Shelagh herself came back from the kitchen. She wordlessly came over to Patrick and sat down beside him. She took his hand in both of hers and rubbed the back of it with her thumb and kissed his cheek.

"Everything alright?" he asked with concern.

Shelagh forced a smile and nodded.

Tim then came to join them. Patrick watched as his son went and poured himself a bit of scotch and downed it in one swallow. "Tim?" he asked worriedly. Everyone was acting so odd and secretive and he could not imagine what was going on.

With a heavy sigh, Tim turned around and faced the sofa where Patrick and Shelagh and Mike sat. Tim looked to Mike who then stood up to stand beside Tim.

"Tim, what's going on?"

"Dad, I…we…I've got something to tell you," Tim said nervously.

Patrick was starting to get very worried indeed. "You can tell me anything, Tim. You know that," he said, hoping to comfort his son over whatever it was he needed to say.

Shelagh's hands gripped his tighter.

Tim looked over at Mike and took his hand. "Mike and I…we're…we're not just friends. We're not just housemates."

Patrick looked from Tim's pale, frightened face to the way the boys clasped hands and back to Tim's face. "What do you mean?" he asked. His heart was thundering in his chest over the tension filling the room, but his confusion won out over any other emotion in that moment.

"We're not just housemates," he said in slightly cryptic explanation. He looked to Shelagh, who nodded. "Mike and I aren't just housemates the way you and Shelagh aren't just housemates. We…we're in love."

The world tilted on its axis for Patrick in that moment. Tim and Mike…the way he and Shelagh…they were… Thoughts would not form in any coherent fashion inside Patrick's head.

He could not process, in that moment, anything with regards to what Tim had said. He just couldn't, not right then. But something did stick. Tim had looked at Shelagh. He'd been in the kitchen talking to her. That…that was something he could cling onto right now.

"You knew?" he asked sharply, turning to look at her beside him.

She nodded. Her eyes were filled with a kind of terror that he did not appreciate at all.

"When?" Patrick demanded.

"Yesterday," she said in a voice so quiet and afraid that it would have broken his heart if he'd been able to think about that right now.

Patrick ripped his hand away from hers and stood up. He downed his own scotch and put the glass down on the table haphazardly. What was happening? What was going on? How…why… Everything seemed to be unraveling right in front of him. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. The walls were closing in and his heart was pounding so hard in his ears that he could not hear anything else.

Without a word, Patrick stormed out of the house. He slammed the door behind him. If anyone called out after him, he didn't hear them. No one followed him, as far as he could tell. But at least outside, he could breathe fresh air. And he started to calm down. Much easier to do without everyone there staring at him.

Well, at least Patrick now knew why Shelagh had been so quiet all day. Tim had told her or perhaps she'd found out somehow. That was a question to ask later. But she had been—what? Nervous? Upset? Uncomfortable?—about it since she'd found out about it. That must have been it.

He paced back and forth in the front garden, trying to wrap his head around all of this. Tim and Mike. They were in love. Tim was in love with a man. With Mike.

"Patrick?"

Shelagh's voice came from the front door, which she closed behind her. He watched her come over to where he was.

"Timothy's inside crying," she said softly.

"I feel a bit like crying myself," Patrick replied. And he did. He felt an ache inside him that he hadn't felt in a long time. A long, long time.

"I think you should come in and talk to him," Shelagh suggested. "And please be kind."

That request startled him. Be kind? What sort of warning was that? Why did she… It dawned on him what she and Tim and probably Mike must have thought with him reacting as he had. And that settled it.

Patrick went back inside without saying anything else to Shelagh. She followed behind him. He could talk to her later. He would talk to her later. But now he had to talk to Tim.

He found his son on the sofa, curled up in Mike's arms, his face pressed into Mike's neck. "Tim?" Patrick addressed warily.

Tim looked up at him, his face red and blotchy and wet from his tears. Patrick did not much like having Mike here to talk about this, but Mike was obviously very much a part of this. And Tim's way of telling Mike everything now made much more sense.

Patrick sat down on the coffee table, ignoring the protest of his bad knee at the low angle. The way Tim was looking at him, waiting for him, it was almost too much to bear, almost made him turn away. But he didn't. He couldn't. They had to deal with this.

"Tim, I need you to tell me how long you and Mike have been…"

"Since we were in school together," Tim answered quietly. He wiped his eyes and sniffed back more tears.

Since they were in school. That was years ago now. "And is he the first man you've been with?" The very question made bile rise up in Patrick's throat.

Tim shook his head.

"In Poplar?"

He shook his head again. "Not till Oxford."

"That is a bit of a comfort at least," Patrick reasoned to himself under his breath.

"Why?" Tim snarled angrily.

But Patrick would not back down from his own anger. "Because I want to know how long you've been keeping this from me!" he shouted.

Tim was taken aback. "You…what?"

Patrick leaned forward and took his son by the shoulders. "Tim, I thought we told each other everything! I thought we were close, that we didn't have secrets, not since you've grown up! My god, I told you the first night I saw Shelagh again that I was in love with a nun! And you didn't trust me to know that you and Mike have been living happily in love all this time? You didn't trust me with the truth?"

Tears filled Tim's eyes again. "I just didn't want to disappoint you," he said, his voice cracking.

"Tim, are you safe? Are you happy?" Patrick asked him with a deadly serious tone.

The young man nodded.

Patrick smiled encouragingly and wiped some of Tim's tears away. "Then you couldn't possibly disappoint me. All I ever want is for you to be happy and safe and loved."

"That's what Shelagh said," Tim said with a watery little laugh.

"Yes, well, she's very smart and you should always listen to her," Patrick replied, looking over to where Shelagh stood, watching and smiling and wiping away her own tears.

Patrick pulled Tim up and into a big hug, kissing his hair like he used to when his son was little.

"Everything's alright. Thank you for telling me," he whispered gently until Tim's breathing had slowed and his tears had stopped.

Tim pulled away after a minute. "I should…I should go finish dinner," he said awkwardly.

"Would you like any help, Timothy?" Shelagh offered.

"In a minute," Tim replied.

They all understood that he wanted a little time to compose himself, and they'd let him have it.

Patrick then turned his attention to Mike who was sitting on the sofa still and was looking up at him with awe. "My family would never react like that," he said.

"Well, we're your family, and we've reacted…well, we've reacted," Patrick said, looking to Shelagh for some assistance.

She came to join him, putting her arm around his waist. "We love you both very much," she told Mike.

"That's right," Patrick agreed.

Mike smiled again, that bright, charming smile he always had. "Thanks, Doctor T."

"You know, Mike, you can call me Patrick. Or even Dad, if you want to. Since you are my son-in-law in every way that really matters," he realized.

"Really?"

"Whatever you like, Mike."

Mike held out his hand to shake Patrick's, but after all of this, Patrick wasn't having any of that. Patrick stepped forward and gave Mike a hug just like the one he'd given Tim a moment before. And as they embraced, Mike whispered, "Thank you."


	19. Chapter 19

_September 14, 1968_

This was not anything Tim ever anticipated ever in his life. It's not something any boy ever expects to do with his father. But of course, Tim and Patrick were different than most sons and fathers. Now more than ever. So perhaps this shouldn't have been odd at all. It did, however, leave Tim with some questions.

"Why now?" he asked. "I mean, you could have done this a month ago or waited another year. Why now?"

Dad paused for a moment, considering. "Well, a month ago we were more focused on you than anything else."

"I'm sorry about that," he replied sadly.

But Dad just put an arm around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze. "Don't be. It's for the best. We've all found our way. Come out the other side better, yes?"

"Yes," Tim agreed. "So does that mean that you would have done this a month ago if you weren't busy?"

Dad shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Shelagh and I haven't actually been together for very long. It was only three months ago that you ran into her on the street and brought her back into our lives."

Tim smirked at that. "Yeah, but you would've married her that night if you'd been able to."

"Yes, actually, I would have. But the time we've had together since, to figure it all out and such, we've needed it. Not just for Shelagh to find her way to herself after making the decision to leave the Order and all that. And since then, we've gotten the chance to…well, to figure out how to live together. You know I haven't lived with anyone since you moved away for school. And I haven't lived with a woman since your mother died. It's been quite an adjustment for both of us," he explained.

"But you're ready now?" Tim asked.

"I think so. I think we both are. We've talked about marriage. From the beginning, actually. I wouldn't have expected her to give up her entire life for me without any assurances. Assurances I was happy and ready to give, of course. But I didn't want to pressure her, of course. Now, though, I think is the right time."

Tim was happy to hear that. It was sort of funny, he'd never have thought he'd want to hear his father talk about his romantic life; such a thing would have made him miss his mother. But Tim was a grown man now. And he and Dad had been through a lot. Quite a lot in the last six weeks, in fact. Hearing him talk about his relationship with Shelagh was wonderful. It didn't make Tim wish his mother was still alive—that dream had been one of a grieving little boy who had grown up to be a man who accepted the way things had happened. Instead, it made him unspeakably happy that Dad was finally happy. They'd discussed it at length by this point, the similarities between them, the way they'd both fallen in love with someone that they shouldn't have. But both he and Dad had been brave enough to pursue the person they each loved and to carve out a little life where they could be happy.

And now they were walking up the high street to a little shop where Tim would be assisting his father in something he'd never imagined: choosing an engagement ring.

When Shelagh had first discovered the truth about Mike and himself, Tim had still harbored a twinge of jealousy in comparing their situations. Shelagh and Dad were allowed to get married and be a happy couple in front of everyone. Tim did not have that luxury with Mike. But Tim had never expected that with Mike. Marriage wasn't something that he pictured as what he and Mike could share. Weddings were about flowers and a woman in a white gown and exchanging rings in a church. None of that was what he and Mike wanted. All they wanted was exactly what they had, and they didn't need to be married to have their house and their rabbits and be happy.

Dad, however, was a man built to be married. He'd done just fine as a widower these last eleven years, but marrying Shelagh was exactly the right thing for him. Tim could just picture this lovely life they shared, having seen a glimpse of it on occasion. Shelagh enjoyed learning to cook and keeping things tidy and organized for Dad; organization had never been his strong suit and the fact that he'd never lost or mixed up patient files was something of a miracle. And Shelagh was a skilled nurse and midwife, and even though Dad was halfway retired, she would be able to assist him in his work. Dad had often talked, back in Poplar, about how good Sister Bernadette was, how sometimes he'd be called to assist in a difficult birth and she would end up doing absolutely everything with him just watching and standing by just in case. That did not surprise Tim. For all her shy quietness, Shelagh was always an extremely capable person. As a child and now as a man, Tim was quite sure there was nothing she couldn't do. Except perhaps make a proper pastry crust. She always somehow either burned it or left it raw and soggy on the bottom. It was weirdly comforting to find something she wasn't brilliant at.

Tim and Patrick went into the jewelry store and focused on the task at hand. "Right, so what sort of thing are you thinking?"

"I don't quite know. I think gold would be better than silver or platinum. With her blonde hair, I think gold is better," Dad posited. "But other than that, I just don't know."

It shouldn't have surprised him that Dad hadn't given this much thought. It had been a very long time—over twenty years, in fact—since he'd bought a diamond ring for a woman. Dad was thoughtful and sweet to Shelagh, but buying extravagant gifts was not something he was at all known for.

Dad got some more ideas as he looked at the jeweler's cases. "Nothing too big. Both for the sake of my bank account and because she works with her hands. I don't want her to be worried about it when she works or feel compelled to take it off and leave it at home."

Tim smiled at that. Dad wasn't the possessive type, wanting to show the world that Shelagh belonged to him, but Tim could tell that he wanted to give her something that she would love and cherish. And Tim was determined to find something that Shelagh might cherish almost as much as she cherished Patrick himself.

The jeweler was busy with another customer, which didn't bother the Turners at all. They could look around without interruption. Tim gazed at all the glittering gemstones in all their gold and silver settings.

"I think diamond, don't you?" Tim asked.

"Yes, I think that would be best. Shelagh likes to wear color and patterns but I don't think she'd want something too ostentatious to wear."

Tim agreed with that. "Yeah, you want it to match whatever else she's wearing." He avoided the case with emeralds and rubies and sapphires. "This sort of square cut," he said, pointing to a large ring in the center of the next case. "I don't think that's really right."

"No, I don't think so. It doesn't really feel like her."

He had not known what to expect from this outing, only that he was honored to be a part of it, but it was actually sort of fun. Dad called him over to another case. "See this one with the big band? I don't want anything too big like that. Not just because it's impractical, but because Shelagh's quite small. She's got lovely dainty hands. A thin band would be best. Won't overpower her."

Tim took that into account and wandered around to another case. And then he saw it. He hadn't realized what he was looking for, but as soon as he saw that ring, it seemed to call out Shelagh. "Dad, come look at this one," Tim said slowly, unable to take his eyes off the ring.

Patrick came over to where Tim was standing. He didn't even ask which ring Tim was talking about. "Oh yes, that's the one!" he said triumphantly.

It was at that moment that the jeweler came over to assist them. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"

"Yes, I'd like to buy that ring," Dad announced, pointing at the ring Tim had found.

"Ah yes, the floral cluster is a very beautiful setting. And this one is in eighteen karat gold with inlaid baguettes around the band. The diamond cluster all together are a full carat."

Dad smiled. "Thank you, I'll take it."

The jeweler seemed pleased at that. He gave the price and Tim nearly fainted. Yet another reason Tim was glad he'd never marry a woman. He'd never afford the bloody ring!

But Dad wasn't fazed in the least. Maybe he knew better what rings cost. And Tim knew he'd saved up his money and had always been willing and able to help out Tim when needed. Apparently the small fortune he was spending on an engagement ring for Shelagh was not anything to worry about.

Dad paid and they waited patiently while the jeweler cleaned and polished the ring and placed it in a small leather box. He offered to wrap it up, but Dad politely declined. He took the little ring box and put it right in his pocket. And with that, they left.

For a moment, Tim wondered if Dad's bad knee was bothering him, the way he was walking. But then he realized that it wasn't arthritis, it was a spring in his step! Tim had hardly seen him this excited in a long time.

"I can't believe the perfect ring was just sitting right there waiting for us," he said.

"Well spotted, Tim," Dad praised. "It is perfect. I think she's going to love it."

"Do you know how you're going to propose? Are you going to do it tonight?"

Dad shook his head. "Actually, I was going to ask if you could keep the ring at your house. And if I give you some money, can you get a bottle of champagne for our next dinner at your place?"

"You want to propose at my house?!" Tim asked in surprise.

"I think so. I want to celebrate with you and Mike. I know Shelagh will say yes, and having dinner all together with champagne is the best way. Maybe when we come over, I'll ask you for the ring and I'll take Shelagh out to the garden, since you know she likes the flowers and the rabbits. And hopefully the weather will stay nice. It won't be very nice to do in the rain," he realized.

"Well if it is raining, we've got the overhang on the porch in the front. You could do it out there by the roses," Tim suggested.

"That's a good idea. I'll keep that in mind, depending on the weather. But yes, I'll do it on Thursday when we come over."

Tim grinned. "I'll make sure Mike and I make something special for dinner, then. I'll ask Shelagh tonight when we come over to yours, get an idea of what her favorite food might be. I already know what you like."

"I like just about anything," Dad said.

"Yeah, I know," Tim laughed, "So that's why I'll have to ask Shelagh."

The two men continued on walking until they got back to Tim's house. There, Patrick handed over the small ring box, opening it once, just to get another glimpse of the ring inside. "Keep it safe. I know it's only for two days, but still."

"I know. Thank you for trusting me with it," Tim replied. "And I won't even tell Mike so we aren't tempted to let the secret out when we come over for dinner later."

Patrick laughed, "Yes, maybe wait till you both are back home tonight before you tell him."

"And you, don't get yourself too worked up over figuring out what to say. You know she's going to say yes. Just tell her you love her and ask her. I know you, you're going to get down on one knee, and if you aren't careful, you'll talk for too long and you'll be in agony and unable to celebrate when she accepts," Tim warned.

Dad smiled. "I've got it all worked out. Don't you worry, Tim."

"I don't worry about you much anymore. You've done alright."

"I think we both have," Dad replied softly.

Tim hugged his father for that.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: M-Rating for this chapter**

_October 3, 1968_

Shelagh's hands scrabbled over the bedsheets and clenched them tight in her fists. The stunning diamond engagement ring on her finger glinted in the low light of the bedroom. It caught her eye and she smiled for a moment before Patrick shifted and touched her…oh right there!

A low moan escaped her throat. She arched her back and rocked against him. Shelagh was on all fours on the edge of the bed, Patrick standing behind her and thrusting madly inside her. This was one of the more exciting positions they'd explored. It was one that allowed Patrick more power and leverage while keeping his knee from getting too sore. Usually they both preferred to be able to see each other and kiss messily while they made love, but this was incredibly exciting. She'd been unsure the first time they'd tried it, but Patrick had done a very good job of ensuring that she enjoyed herself immensely.

"Yes, Patrick, please!" she begged. She was so close. He reached around to rub her furiously to send her over the edge. Shelagh gasped loudly as her body shattered from his efforts. She knew from experience that Patrick would finish right after her, filling her with the warm gush of his seed from his stuttering thrusts until he finally stilled and they fell on the bed together in exhaustion.

But while Shelagh's body was still pulsating with pleasure, she felt Patrick sharply stop moving, and even while she struggled to remain upright, he pulled out of her. The next thing she knew, something hot and wet and sticky landed on her bum.

If she weren't worried about something dripping off her, she would have gotten up and scrambled about. As it was, she was too shocked to do anything. She remained frozen and extremely uncomfortable. Even as her body was coming down from her climax, her mind was jolted right out of any pleasure. "P-Patrick?" she stammered, too afraid to even turn to him.

"Oh god, I'm sorry. Let me…"

She could hear him moving around behind her. He returned a moment later with a tissue from the nightstand and wiped her off. "What was that?" she asked nervously.

"Shelagh, I am sorry, I just…"

"What?"

"I finished…erm…not inside you," he explained awkwardly.

Her flesh crawled at the realization of what he had done. Never before had the reality of their respective bodies bothered her. But something about the idea of him…doing that…on her skin just felt so dirty and messy and disgusting.

Shelagh immediately sat up and hurried to get her dressing gown to wrap over her body. She was not comfortable with her nudity in that moment. In fact, she very much wanted to go straight to take a bath and wash every inch of herself.

She caught sight of Patrick's face, and that gave her pause. He looked utterly distraught, standing there naked and worried and watching her tear around the room in such a state. At that, Shelagh realized they should probably talk for a moment first. "Patrick?" she began softly.

"I am so sorry, darling," he replied.

Shelagh forced a tight smile on her face to try to make him feel a little better. She crossed to get his dressing gown for him. "Here, let's sit for a moment. I think…well, I'd like some explanation. You've never done that before."

Patrick pulled the dressing gown on and tied it tightly before sitting on the edge of the bed beside Shelagh. "I know. I know, and I should have before."

"What!?"

"I mean, I…" He sighed heavily. "Shelagh, I hadn't thought about it before now, but…is it possible that I could get you pregnant?"

"Oh!" She'd not even considered such a thing. "I…well, yes, it is possible. I am still menstruating regularly and have not begun menopause yet. I am nearing the age for it though."

He nodded. She appreciated beyond all other things that her fiancé was a doctor and she herself a nurse and midwife. They were able to discuss such things with medical understanding. Most couples, Shelagh knew very well, were not as comfortable with such things, and even fewer knew the proper terminology.

"I suppose I've been rather discreet about it. I've…well, I've never lived with a man before."

"I didn't know. And we've never talked about it. We haven't taken any precautions to prevent pregnancy," he said.

Shelagh nodded in agreement. She really should have known better. She was a midwife! She knew better than anyone about these things! But she had never had any personal connection to sex and pregnancy before. And now she was having relations before marriage. "We certainly should be more careful until after we're married."

"So do…do you want children?"

The question had not occurred to her. "I…well…" She trailed off, not knowing what to say.

"I think if we'd gotten married back in Poplar, this would be a different conversation," he said carefully. "And what I mean by that is, I don't think we'd have even had the conversation at all. I think it would just go without saying that we would have had children together."

Shelagh turned her whole body to face him. "Did you want to have children with me?"

He smiled sadly. "Ten years ago, yes I did. But…Shelagh, I'm sixty years old."

She nodded. They'd celebrated his birthday just a few weeks earlier, just after they'd gotten engaged. "And I'll be forty-three next week. It won't be impossible for us to have children. We've both had patients who have had perfectly safe pregnancies at older than that. And actually, the wedding isn't very far away, even if I got pregnant now, I don't think it would be much of a scandal," she pointed out

Patrick looked pained, searching her face for something she couldn't not imagine. "Shelagh…"

"Yes, dear?" She reached up and pushed that thick swath of hair off his forehead. Even gray, it was thick and soft and beautiful. Her fingers trailed over his face. Patrick closed his eyes and smiled serenely at her touch.

He reached up and took her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm before giving her a squeeze. "Shelagh, look at me."

"I am, Patrick." She wasn't sure what he was after.

"Do I look like a man who should be getting ready to be a father?" he asked. There was a sadness in his tone that caused her heart to clench.

"What do you mean?"

"Shelagh, I'm old. I'm practically retired. Men my age should be focusing on grandchildren, not children of their own!"

Thankfully, Shelagh caught herself before pointing out that Patrick wouldn't have any grandchildren. That would have been cruel. For she knew, even if Patrick didn't, that it was precisely that fact that had been one of Tim's reasons for being so worried to tell his father the truth. And Shelagh wasn't sure if Patrick had come to that realization just yet, that he'd never be a grandfather. But that wasn't entirely the issue at the moment. "Patrick, are you saying you don't want to have children with me?"

In that moment, Shelagh thought she could see the exact instant when his heart broke. Without him even saying anything, she knew the answer. Ten years ago, yes, he had wanted children with her. Perhaps he still did. But they were just too old now. He may have wanted children with her in the abstract but not now.

"I mean," she continued, not wanting to focus on the tragedy of their circumstance, "if we aren't going to have children, what…what's the point of being married?"

It was his turn to be taken aback now. "What do you mean? Surely the point is that we love each other."

Oh he was so hurt, and she could feel it radiating off him in waves. But she was hurt, too. True, she'd not thought about having children. It had never been the forefront of her thoughts. But wasn't that the inevitable progression of people's lives? Marriage and babies?

"Shelagh, I hope you don't mean to say that you don't want to get married unless we're going to have children in that marriage," he said darkly.

"I…I don't know."

"You don't know if you want to marry me?" He let go of her hand, letting it fall heavily in her own lap.

"Of course I want to marry you, Patrick!" she protested.

"Why?" he demanded.

"Because I love you! Because…because I want us to be together properly."

"There you have it then!"

"But I just always thought that children would be part of that," Shelagh said sadly. The dream of being a mother, a dream she'd not even properly had, was dying before her eyes.

Patrick hung his head. "I didn't know."

Really, he had no reason to know. She knew that. He was right, they'd never talked about it before. He had assumed they wouldn't have children just as she assumed they would. And really, the odds were certainly stacked against them in conceiving. She was inching closer to menopause every moment. And at sixty years old, Patrick was probably not very fertile anymore. Though… "Tuberculosis," she remembered.

"What about it?" he asked, looking up in confusion.

"It can…it can affect fertility. I think there's every chance that even if we wanted to have a child, I probably wouldn't be able to get pregnant. Or if I did, I'm sure the risk of miscarriage at my age and with my medical history would be extraordinarily high." She sighed sadly. "So I suppose it's best that we aren't going to try."

"Oh my darling," Patrick said, pulling her into his arms and hugging her close. "You gave up everything for me, and I wish more than anything that I could give you everything in return."

Shelagh pulled back to look at him, holding his dear face in her hands. "You are everything to me, Patrick. I gave up my life so I could be without _you_. Just you. I want a life with you. I didn't agree to marry you so you'd give me children. Maybe if we were younger, that might have been possible, but we've moved beyond that time in our lives, you're right. We have Timothy and Mike, and we have each other. I promise you, Patrick Turner, that is all I ever need."

He kissed her soundly. "I love you," he whispered into her lips.

She threw her arms around his neck and held him tight. "I love you."

They held each other quietly for a moment, reveling in their love. But eventually, Patrick pulled back to speak again. "I'm afraid we didn't actually come to much of a solution for the time being," he realized.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…what steps should we take to prevent pregnancy. I could pull out like I did, but that's not foolproof."

"No, I'd prefer if you didn't do that again," she answered quickly. Shelagh had forgotten about that in the midst of this conversation and was now feeling her skin crawl again.

"I'm so sorry. I won't do that ever again, I promise. I suppose we could use condoms. I can order some through my medical supplier."

Shelagh knew how condoms worked, of course. The nuns had never been the ones to teach the sexual health and family planning classing, but she'd seen the nurses in their demonstrations. "That doesn't seem very…comfortable."

"I will confess I've never used one before, but we could give it a try," he offered.

She bit her bottom lip, trying to think how to answer. "I think…if you're comfortable with it, I mean…"

He chuckled in amusement at how flustered she was. "What is it, darling?"

"Couldn't we just continue on as we have? I mean, we've been just fine for more than three months. Not that we're trying to get pregnant, of course, but do we really need to take such drastic steps to prevent it?" It was not usually in Shelagh's nature to be so cavalier about something so important. The risk of pregnancy was low, she was sure. But she was not the one who was so certain she did not want to have a baby.

"Why don't you leave it to me?" he suggested. He probably sensed that she was not very enthusiastic about the idea of making plans about their love life. It was all still very new to her, after all.

She nodded in resignation. "That's fine, just promise you won't do…that…ever again."

Patrick looked rightfully contrite. "Again, I am sorry. And I promise, it will never happen ever again."

"Good," she said, hoping the subject could be closed now.

"If you'd like to take a bath before going to bed, I'll run one for you," he offered.

That was exactly what she'd been hoping for. "Yes, please," she answered. "Though I'd like it if you'd join me in the bath."

"My knee will need a massage to get me out of the bathtub when we're finished, but with that caveat, I'd very much like to join you in the bath."

Shelagh grinned. "Good." And just for good measure, she gave him a swift kiss before taking his hand and leading him into the bathroom. As they walked, she untied her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor.


	21. Chapter 21

_February 10, 1969_

Patrick got out of the car and blew into his hands, rubbing them together. The snow was no longer falling, but the chill in the air was quite severe. He didn't want to remain outdoors any longer than necessary. He wanted to get right inside and get a fire going in the hearth and put the kettle on for a nice cup of tea.

He crossed to the passenger side and opened the car door, offering his hand. "Mrs. Turner," he greeted with a goofy grin.

Shelagh's smile was so radiant as she accepted his hand. His mind swirled with the other times he'd seen her look at him that way. It was more common now than it used to be, of course. But there were particular moments, like this one, where the vision of her loving smile were burned into his memory.

Their first Christmas morning together. He had surprised her with a few rather extravagant presents, including their honeymoon itinerary and a few things for her to wear on that honeymoon. She had been ecstatic at all of it. The ship passage across the channel and the train to Paris and the three weeks in a hotel in the heart of the city were perfect for them, he knew, despite the large dip into his savings. But at his age, after all it had taken to get to this point with Shelagh, this was exactly what they deserved. He wanted to give her everything he possibly could, and this was making quite a good start to it. And, of course, the beautiful lacy things he'd bought for her had made her blush, but he'd been rewarded with a rather sensual kiss and that radiant smile, so he knew he'd done well.

On New Year's Eve, just two weeks before their wedding, they had chosen to politely decline Tim's invitation to a party at his place with Mike and their friends. Patrick and Shelagh had agreed that the boys should be able to have fun without the parents hanging about. Tim, a few months after things had gotten rather regular between them all, had begun to call Shelagh 'Mum' without any discussion of the issue. It had rather shocked her at first, and it had been quite a surprise to Patrick as well, but it seemed quite the most natural thing. Mike still called them Patrick and Shelagh, which made sense under the circumstances. But rather than ringing in the new year with the boys, Patrick and Shelagh had opted to have a quiet night at home together. And as midnight approached, the BBC was on television counting down as an old jazz record played on the phonograph, and Patrick swayed with his lovely fiancée in his arms. They kissed as the clock struck twelve. Shelagh had pulled back with that smile on her face that never failed to make him feel like the world was bright and all his dreams had come true.

His dreams did come true in earnest, however, on their wedding day. It was mid-January and Oxford was covered in a fresh dusting of snow. Everything was white and clean and glistening and beautiful. They had spent the night apart, for the sake of tradition, so Patrick woke up alone for the first time since Shelagh had begun sharing his bed six months earlier. He was staying at home while Shelagh had spent the night in Tim's unused bedroom. The boys were so sweet about helping them both get ready for the big day. Tim had helped Patrick choose Shelagh's engagement ring and he'd also helped Shelagh choose her wedding dress. The boys took turns going to and from each house to help them both get ready. Patrick took his own car to the church with Tim while Mike drove Shelagh in his car.

The wedding had been small but lovely. Neither of them had much family or too many friends, but the neighbors and various people from the hospital who were important to them had all arrived. One guest in particular, however, had traveled a greater distance to be there with them. Patrick looked out upon the small crowd as he waited at the altar for Shelagh to come up the aisle when he spotted a wimple. He had not realized that Shelagh had invited Sister Julienne, but he was ever so glad she had. The two of them shared a knowing smile before the wedding march began to play.

In that moment, the entire world fell away. His beautiful Shelagh appeared wearing a gown more stunning than he could have never imagined, looking the absolute picture of a bride. Her hair was down and curled around her shoulders in the way he always found so stunning. And the whole time she walked, she had her eyes locked onto his through her veil, and her smile was unlike anything he'd ever seen before.

Patrick had barely paid any attention during the ceremony. He repeated words when told to, and the whole thing was over before he knew it. When he and Shelagh each said 'I do,' he felt his heart do flips inside his chest. And then there she was, after he lifted her veil, smiling that same radiant smile as he kissed her. The first time he had kissed her as his wife.

Afterward, when they had greeted their guests in the reception, he overheard Sister Julienne congratulating his new wife. "My dear Shelagh, I have never seen you so happy. I think it's very clear you've made the right choice," she had said.

"Yes, Sister. Thank you so much for being here and for everything you've always done to support me, through good times and bad."

The two women embraced, and Patrick had thanked Sister Julienne for making the trip, though she had to leave shortly thereafter in order to catch her train back to Poplar.

Everything about the wedding and the wedding night and the honeymoon had been perfect beyond belief. The snow had made Paris so magical, and it was made all the better for being off-season for tourists. There were very few crowds anywhere, and they had practically the whole run of the Louvre and Notre Dame and everywhere else. One day they took a trip out to Giverny to see Monet's garden. He'd not painted it in the snow, but the frost on the trees and icicles on the Japanese bridges had been a vision. Versailles, too, had been outstanding to see in the winter. The most beautiful of all, however, was seeing Shelagh adorned in pale blue lace by the light of the fire in their hotel room. As much as Patrick might have wanted to make love to her on the floor by the fire, her back and his knee wouldn't allow for such things. The bed was a more than suitable substitute for them.

And now, after all of that, they were finally home again. The boys had been looking after the house for them, so Patrick had no worries that anything would be amiss. Hopefully they'd also left something for supper, as the travel had been rather exhausting and Patrick did not want Shelagh to have to do too much cooking and he certainly did not want to have to go to the market.

These mundane concerns went out of his mind, however, as they carried their suitcases to the front door. Patrick turned the key in the lock and paused after opening it. "If you could put that down, please," he requested.

Shelagh looked at him in confusion. "Patrick, the snow," she pointed out.

"Just for a moment." And really, the snow wouldn't seep into the cases that quickly. He demonstrated by putting his own suitcase down beside the door.

With a resigned sigh, Shelagh followed suit.

"Thank you," he said, smiling. And without further ado, he bent down and put one arm under her knees and the other at her back and lifted her into his arms to carry her through the door.

"Patrick!" she shrieked. "You'll hurt yourself, put me down!"

He just laughed. "You're a slight little thing. And I'm not going to be running around with you. But I'll not let our age detract from the tradition of carrying my bride across the threshold," he insisted. He walked across the foyer and into the sitting room with Shelagh in his arms. He gently deposited her down on the sofa. She had calmed down by then, and he pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "And now I'll go get our suitcases out of the snow."

Shelagh got up to follow him and assist, but the telephone rang. "I'll get it," she told him.

As he moved everything inside and closed the door behind them, he could hear her in the kitchen on the phone.

"Hello, Timothy!…Yes…Oh my goodness…Yes, of course, we'll be right over. Give us about twenty minutes. In the meantime, boil some water and get lots of towels. We'll be there soon." She hung up and called out, "Patrick!"

He hurried over to her. "Yes, what is it? Was that Tim? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, that was Timothy. He's lucky we'd just gotten home. You remember that nice neighbor of his, Mrs. Pearce?"

Patrick nodded, recalling quiet brunette who he'd met a few times when over with Tim and Mike. "Her husband is in the army, isn't he?"

"Yes. And he's away. And she's pregnant, and her waters just broke on Timothy's kitchen floor."

That was not what he'd expected at all. "Did he call for an ambulance for her?"

"The snow has closed some of the roads. The ambulance wait is over an hour. We can get there quicker than that, even if we can't drive the whole way. And between us, we can help much better than anyone."

"You're right," Patrick agreed. The weariness of his age and the full day of travel was suddenly erased. There was a patient in need of their help. "Let me get my bag."

Shelagh hurried to get her own medical supplies and he rushed into the surgery to fill his bag with the things he'd need. They met by the front door. Their suitcases were left unopened in the foyer.

Patrick drove as quickly as he could safely manage in the weather. Unfortunately, there were road closures that forced them to abandon the car on a side street. Luckily they were less than a quarter mile away from Timothy's house at that point. He and Shelagh carried their things and trudged through the snow the last few blocks. They arrived just in time, as the wind had picked up and the snow was starting to come down again.

They entered the house without knocking, as usual. They dusted themselves off from the snow and hurried in. "Tim?" Patrick called out.

"In the bedroom," his son called back.

Mike appeared, looking frantic and frazzled for the first time since Patrick had met him. "Thank god you're here!" He led them back to where Mrs. Pearce was lying in the bed, letting out a mighty scream.

Shelagh transitioned into the perfect midwife without missing a beat. "Hello, Mrs. Pearce. I'm Mrs. Turner. I'm a midwife. My husband here is a doctor. We're going to help deliver your baby today," she said soothingly.

Patrick realized that was the first time he'd ever heard Shelagh introduce herself as Mrs. Turner. And even under the circumstances, it warmed his heart.

From there, however, there was no time for many pleasantries. The labor was coming very quickly, and they'd arrived just in time. Patrick and Shelagh worked together, telling the boys what to bring them and how to help position Mrs. Pearce for delivery. And within two hours, Patrick was handing clamps and scissors to Shelagh as she cut the umbilical cord and wrapped the newborn in one of Timothy's towels.

"Mrs. Pearce, you have a perfect baby girl," Shelagh said, placing him in the woman's arms.

The new mother was smiling and laughing and crying with exhaustion. It was something Patrick and Shelagh had seen many, many times before. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you all so much. Oh I wish Harry were here!"

"When does your husband come home for his leave?" Patrick asked. He was still sitting at the end of the bed, waiting to deliver the placenta.

"Next week, actually. He's just missed the birth. He'll be so disappointed. I know he wanted to do better this time around. He's got two children from his first marriage. He missed their births, too."

"Well by the time your Harry comes home, your daughter will be all clean and happy, and you'll both be properly recovered for Harry to see you," Patrick said gently. "But for now, why don't you let Mrs. Turner look over the baby and clean her off. We've still got the afterbirth to deal with down here."

In the end, Patrick and Shelagh stayed with Mrs. Pearce and her new baby for a few more hours, making sure everyone was healthy and happy and bundled them both up to go back to their own home. They helped Tim and Mike clean things up after a bit of tea and cake before they left, promising to come check on the Pearces the next morning.

The roads had been cleared by the evening, allowing Patrick to drive them home without incident. They got back inside and both practically collapsed on the sofa.

"I think we've done rather well, considering," Shelagh noted.

"Considering we woke up today in Paris and every muscle in my body is in agony? Yes, I think we did fine."

Shelagh laughed lightly. "I've missed getting to deliver babies with you. It was just like it used to be. Only better."

He hummed in agreement. "Doctor and Nurse Turner."

"I think our first day back home has given us a bit of insight. Perhaps that's what we can do. Private obstetrics. House calls, like we did in Poplar for the NHS, but through your surgery practice," she suggested.

"I think that's a wonderful idea, darling," he said. "But let's talk about it in the morning. After we unpack. I can hardly think about anything right now."

"Alright," she agreed. "We'd better make a move towards bed before we're stuck here."

He chuckled. "Yes, alright."

The two of them hauled themselves up and down the hall to bed. And Patrick smiled, realizing that this was indeed the first day of what would be the rest of his life with Shelagh by his side. It had taken them years to get to this point, but really, it was far better late than never.

**THE END**


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